


A Better Place

by Tsuki



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Oral Sex, Politics, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-03-09 12:38:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18917161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsuki/pseuds/Tsuki
Summary: It has always been the wrong time for them. Now, after all the fighting and death has ended, Tyrion and Sansa are in a better place. Will trade agreements bring them together... or is duty, as always, the death of love? (Slow burn)





	1. Queen of the North

**Author's Note:**

> After the GoT series finale, I planned to write a short post-fic of easy Sansa/Tyrion smut. Instead I seem to have started a multi-part intricate interpersonal dance centering around trade agreements. Whoopsie! The smut will arrive in chapter three. In the meantime, enjoy the slow burn, world-building, and emotional tension.

“I’m telling ya’, we need free trade. The North is acting like one of those whores who waits until you’re all lathered up and ready and then hikes the bloody price! This rebuilding plan isn’t going to get done if things keep going how they’re going!” Bronn slapped the table for emphasis, leaving the linger of a damp handprint on the maps and architecture plans scattered on the table. Tyrion winced, moving some of the papers away from Bronn’s violent—and disturbingly moist—gestures.

“A very colorful example,” the King’s Hand replied. “But we are in little position to bargain—the North has the resources we need for the rebuilding plan, and they are quite understandably setting the price. We have a few options: re-scale the project—”

“Which will take months,” Davos grumbled.

“—see if we can find another source of materials—”

“Which we’ve already tried and found fuck all,” Bronn reminded.

“—or set up negotiations with the Queen of the North,” Tyrion concluded, “and hope that she is sympathetic to the fact that it’s her brother asking for this agreement.”

“I doubt it will be easy,” Ser Brienne stated plainly. Her presence at the council meetings Tyrion always appreciated. She was technically, as head of the King’s Guard, only required to weigh in on matters of security, but Tyrion found her insight to be sound in most other matters as well. “Sansa will be thinking of her own people and what’s right for the North. She’s unlikely to be moved by sentiment. She’s a strong, focused woman, like her mother.”

Tyrion nodded slowly. “If we choose negotiation, we will have to be careful about who we send.” He intentionally did not look at Bronn, who was currently picking something out of his teeth and then wiping his hands on his pant leg. “I suggest that we take this quandary to the king and let him decide. Perhaps he’ll have some insight as to an option we missed or who would be best to meet with his sister.”

* * *

“You, of course.”

King Bran’s nearly monotone voice filled the empty room—still partially fractured and under construction—with a cool echo. Tyrion blinked for a moment, confused and convinced he must have misheard.

“Me, your grace?”

“Yes.”

“But… my king… the trip to Winterfell takes weeks. With negotiations, I would be gone for well over a month.”

“Yes.”

Tyrion frowned. Bran was many things as a king, but expressive was certainly not one of them. Tyrion prided himself on his insight into people and their motivations, yet Bran was nearly impossible to read as a ruler.   

“As your Hand, if something were to happen, it is my responsibility—”

“As you once suggested yourself, there are many competent advisers on the council. Ser Davos and Ser Brienne both are calm, intelligent, and reasoned. There are no signs of immediate danger. The realm is as much at peace as it has been in quite some time. This is one of the moments in history when I can spare you, and I can think of no one better to send to my sister.”

Tyrion felt his heart tighten and his brow furrow. If it had been any other leader, he would have assumed that such a dismissal of his necessity was the start of his downfall—both politically and otherwise. Yet, with Bran, one could never assume his reasoning. As the Three-Eyed Raven, perhaps he saw what others did not, perhaps he had peeled back the veil of history and time and made a knowing and reasoned decision based on his foreknowledge of history. Or perhaps not.

“You’re overthinking things again, my Hand,” King Bran mused, interrupting Tyrion’s thoughts. The king’s half-focused eyes glistened slightly, and his mouth was quirked in one of his mysterious half-smiles, the kind that hinted at a bemused foreknowledge. “I believe that Winterfell is where you should be. And I am king.”

The declaration was said with no hint of threat or malice—it was just a calm statement of truth. But Tyrion recognized the power in the statement and immediately bowed at the waist.

“That you are. I will prepare to leave for Winterfell in the morning.”

* * *

“I’m sending Ser Podrick and Ser Allins with you,” Brienne explained. “You should be safe on the journey.”

“Thank you,” Tyrion said with a small smile. “The king was fine with having another Kingsguard by his side for a time?”

“Indeed,” Brienne assured. “In fact, he seemed pleased at the choice. The king explicitly said to make sure you were well protected, and he knows that they are the men whom I trust the most.”

Tyrion made a small humming noise in the back of his throat. Explicit orders. Well protected. Well, that was a fair sign that Bran wasn’t knowingly sending him to his death in the North, he supposed. But it just didn’t all make sense—why would a king want to send his Hand away from his side for over a month? What was there to gain? Surely there were other nobles and advisors who would be well suited for this job and would relish the chance to gain favor with the king by making a deal with the North. The picture just wasn’t fitting together smoothly in Tyrion’s mind.

“Will you see how she’s doing? I’ve been wondering,” Ser Brienne asked, interrupting Tyrion’s tortured reveries.

The King’s Hand chuckled softly. “She’s an unchallenged monarch ruling over a prosperous independent kingdom, one that has enough leverage to have King’s Landing crawling to her to negotiate trade terms. She’s doing well enough, I’m sure.”

Brienne frowned, her broad brow creasing as she stared at Tyrion curiously. “I’m not sure it’d be as simple as all that. Just… see how she is, please? How she truly is?”

Tyrion sighed. He wasn’t quite sure why Brienne seemed so concerned. Sansa was the liberator of the North, Queen at Winterfell—really the only one who truly got what they wanted after the destruction of the Red Keep and the first Lords’ Election. He was sure she was more confident in her place in the world than many. But still, he found himself meeting Brienne’s eyes and giving an acquiescing nod. “I will do my best.”

* * *

Winterfell loomed large in the distance. It had been nearly two weeks of travel—thankfully, Tyrion found that Allins was a colorful story teller and Podrick had plenty of pleasant songs to break up some of the journey’s monotony—and they had finally arrived in sight of the large, ancestral castle. Silver and black banners and wolf sigils decorated still black-scorched walls and towers. No one who saw the castle could deny that a significant battle had taken place here—or deny that the current occupants had been victorious. The effect was a chilling message of pride and strength, of resilience and fortitude. It did not, Tyrion realized, give him the greatest confidence in his mission.

As they neared the entrance, the large wooden doors began to swing open, and Tyrion found himself thinking of the previous two times he entered these doors—first as a sardonic young Lannister, then as the Hand of Daenerys Targaryen, the liberating and conquering queen. Neither were met without suspicion by Starks and the people of the North. He remembered hard-edged stares and whispers, children who quickly looked away from him when he accidentally met their eyes. This entrance was not so different—he was still an outsider, a representative of King’s Landing—but now the looks were more defiant, less shrouded by dread and anxiety. The North was independent again, and in a time of peace no less. There was no fear about the implications of power behind the blond, curly-haired dwarf on horseback.

A black-cloaked soldier came forward to bring their horses to a halt, and Tyrion thought perhaps he recognized him from the Battle of the Dead, but he wasn’t entirely sure. “We received the raven telling of your coming,” the soldier stated flatly. “The queen awaits your presence inside.”

Tyrion, Podrick, and Allins were herded from their horses, through the labyrinthian corridors of Winterfell, and to another set of great wooden doors that signaled the entrance to the Great Hall. As the doors slowly opened and the glow of the great fireplace began to spread its fingers across their vision, Tyrion found his breath catching in his throat—Sansa Stark, Queen of the North, sat on an intricately carved wooden throne, looking for all the world like she was born to be a queen.

Her pale, porcelain skin was set in sharp contrast to her embroidered black dress, which wrapped around her chest and waist like a vice before sweeping outward in rich waves of sleeves and skirt pleats. Her red hair cascaded down her shoulders in neat, sleek rivers, each strand seeming to catch the firelight in a way to make it almost otherworldly in its luminescence. And then—there was the crown. Bright, twisted silver, impossible not to notice.

King Bran often chose not to wear a crown when in King’s Landing, and Tyrion was fairly sure he could count on one hand the number of times he had actually seen it on his king’s head in any setting. The sight of one now—the message and power it represented—made him feel almost blinded.

Tyrion took a deep breath and carefully walked forward. Rows of Northmen, cloaked in fur, black, and grey, stared at him frostily as he made his way down the aisle that led to the queen’s seated form. Tyrion couldn’t but help feel like he was surrounded by a wolf pack waiting for a signal to pounce. When he was just a few yards away, he paused and bowed at the waist. “Queen Sansa,” he said, projecting a confidence in his voice that he did not fully feel.

“Lord Tyrion,” she replied, her voice calm and emotionless. “Welcome back to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Tyrion lifted his head but kept his body still at half-bow. With this tone in the air, deference seemed wise as an opening tactic. “I assume the message sent with the raven made my king’s request clear. I look forward to a fruitful negotiation so that both our kingdoms shall prosper.”

Sansa’s mouth straightened into a thin line and she took a soft breath before speaking, her voice firm. “I do apologize that you came all this way, my lord, but I really don’t think there will be much to discuss. The North has natural resources, stone, and lumber that King’s Landing wants. We’ve set the terms. The king can meet those terms, or he can search elsewhere.” Sansa tilted her head ever so slightly, a ribbon of red hair shimmering brighter in the firelight. “Therefore, I do not expect our negotiation to take long at all.” Before Tyrion could respond, Sansa held up a hand. “But for now, you’ve traveled far. You should bathe, eat, and rest. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll have you and your men shown to quarters.”

Tyrion tried not to wince. This was… not a promising start. “Thank you, your grace. I look forward to our talk tomorrow.”

* * *

The castle was cold—of course it was cold. Winterfell was always cold. Nearly as cold as death. The rooms had been filled with furs and firewood, but Tyrion found himself still shivering for a reason he couldn’t fully explain. Perhaps, he thought as he tried to bundle under another pelt, it was more memories than temperature.

After several hours of being unable to sleep, he gave up, sliding on his pants under his nightshirt and lacing up his shoes.

Winterfell’s stone halls echoed slightly as he walked, the castle otherwise eerily quiet except for the occasional crackle of a nearby fire. He wasn’t sure where his legs were taking him until he found himself at the entrance to the Stark family crypt. His breath caught in realization. He stared at the door for several minutes, feeling frozen to the spot as memories washed over him.

“I thought I might find you here,” a soft voice murmured warmly from behind him.

Tyrion jolted and turned to see Sansa, dressed now in a simple, thin black gown and cloak. She looked more delicate than before, the sheath of dark fabric soft against her curves, but without any nearby light, her supple form nearly faded into the night’s darkness—all except for her pale skin and red hair. No crown now, Tyrion noticed—just simple braids adorning her head.

“Why is that?” he asked, his words sounding rough—choking in his throat.

Sansa’s lips pursed into a thin, sad line. “It’s what everyone does the first time they return to Winterfell. Those who were here for the Battle of the Dead.” She moved forward, her soft, dark dress brushing the stone floor. “People freeze, get stuck just staring at the spot where they encountered them. Where they saw someone die—where they almost died.” She smiled gloomily, tentatively touching the crypt door. “It’s a kind of haunting, I suppose. It fades as new memories are made here, but the first time… well… It’s been the same for everyone.” Sansa’s eyes gleamed slightly as she pulled her hand away from the heavy door. “As I said, it fades. I don’t have time to think of it anymore.”

“Really?” Tyrion looked up at Sansa’s pale face. Her expression was distant and cool. “I still think about it, sometimes. Being down there in the crypt. It is… odd, being here now. I didn’t realize it would feel so strange, after everything. But even back in King’s Landing, I would think of it.” Tyrion found himself letting out a short, bitter chuckle. “When I thought I was about to be executed for setting Jaime free, I actually thought about it a lot. I found myself wondering if it would have been more satisfying to die here in Winterfell.”

Sansa frowned, turning to look down at Tyrion. “Why is that?”

Tyrion shrugged. “It was an obvious choice to be here, fighting for the greater good. No ambiguity. And honestly,” Tyrion smiled, “it was much better company.”

Sansa didn’t respond but instead just looked at him with an inscrutable gaze. After another moment, Tyrion finally sighed and nodded his head. “It is good to see you again, Sansa. It truly is.”

Then Tyrion turned and walked softly back to his room, where it did not take long for him to fall into a heavy sleep.

* * *

The next morning, he found Podrick standing in the snow, his gaze unfocused as he stared silently—hauntingly—at the castle ramparts. Tyrion patted his hand and nodded knowingly.

* * *

 The heavy oak table was far larger than was needed for this negotiation, but it certainly sent a message. It was a table that was etched with history—tankard marks, quill scratches, and hand print wears—and it filled the room, large and impressive, the wood dark and rich. It was a table that had been made for large groups of negotiating men, but now seated only three figures: an old man, a queen, and a dwarf.

Not that one of those figures, Tyrion thought, wasn’t suitably impressive in her own right. Sansa’s cool harshness of presentation had returned with the day’s light. Today, her bodice was wrapped in dark, elaborately embroidered fabric that resembled small ropes—her small waist and the curve of her chest thus wrapped in a way that looked either armored or bound. The skirts of her dress were less billowy than the ones she wore the previous evening on the throne, but they were decorated in small braided details that gave the striking impression of both weight and wealth. Her hair was down again, with a small braid framing either side of her face, the sleek silver of the crown pressing so that they hung perfectly straight. It would have been an imposing and impressive look in a painting—in a live woman with the cool command of a queen, it was nearly devastating.

Sansa had indeed mastered the art of a striking presentation, which made the contrast with her companion—a white-haired old scholar in plain, worn robes and an uneven haircut—nearly absurd. According to introductions, he was Winterfell’s current resident historian and archivist, but thus far he had just sat slouched and near-dozing.

Tyrion hoped he struck a picture somewhere in the middle: plain, well-made clothes with the deep golden glint of the King’s Hand on his chest. He knew no one would find a dwarf imposing or intimidating, but he could hope, at least, for distinguished.

As if reading his mind, Sansa quirked a thin eyebrow. “Your beard is shorter than when I last saw you.”

Tyrion half-laughed, “The last time you saw me, I had just been in prison for several months.”

“Yes, but even before that—you had been keeping it longer.”

Tyrion instinctively touched his face, feeling the evidence of the short scruff along the line of his jaw. “I suppose. Perhaps because shaving seemed more like a vanity and… less important with all that was going on.”

Sansa made a soft humming sound. “It certainly made you look older, more world-wearied. Now you look like a lord of King’s Landing—more like a Lannister, actually.”

“The gods forbid!” Tyrion laughed. Oh dear, his beard _did_ look more like his father’s, didn’t it? The thought gave him a feeling of mild horror, which he covered with a shake of his head. “Well, you look very much like a royal queen—and I should know. I’ve known a few in my day.”

Apparently, the attempted-levity of the comment was a misstep, as Sansa’s previously thoughtful expression became cool, her eyes dark and hard again. “Yes, well, let’s discuss what you can bring back to tell your _king_. The North is happy to continue to sell King’s Landing further stone and treated lumber, but we will continue to do so at the price we see fit. If the Master of Coin is having trouble coming up with funds, then the materials can wait until the North’s price is satisfied.”

Tyrion frowned. “You do note that the cost difference is absurd though, do you not? The same stone you sell to King’s Landing at one cost is sold to a Northern farmer to build a wall at only a third of the cost.”

“A fifth, actually,” the old man—who had been entirely silent until now—suddenly interjected. Tyrion blinked at him.

“A fifth then, which just makes my point further. Your grace, nearly a quarter of King’s Landing was destroyed by dragon fire. Not just homes, but public buildings, markets, houses of worship—your brother’s plan is to take this destruction and build a better place, a better city for all. But to do that in a way the city can afford, we need your help! We just ask for a fair price.”

“It is a fair price,” Sansa retorted flatly.

“How can you say that when it’s sold in the North for so much less?”

“ _Because_ it is in the North.”

Tyrion huffed in frustration. “My lady—”

“You mean ‘Your grace,’” Sansa quickly corrected coldly. Tyrion gritted his teeth.

“Your _grace_ , I understand the North’s fierce independence and identity, but you have family in King’s Landing too. Your brother is the king who is asking for your help. Your enemies don’t live there anymore—your friends do. This North and South division should be put aside to—”

“You misunderstand me,” Sansa interrupted. “It’s not about enemies or friends—or even family. I am the Queen of the North, which means my responsibility is to my people. Both cutting the stone and cutting and treating the wood is difficult work, sometimes even dangerous. Those who do such work deserve proper compensation and benefit. The prices are lower here because of the benefit. If a farmer in the North buys the stone and then has the means to fix the wall around his goat herd, he can then sell his cheese to many Northern families, including the stone and wood workers. If a Northern carpenter buys the treated wood, he can build chairs, tables, toys, and more, which are then bought by Northern families, including the stone and wood workers. The prosperity and the cycle of support stays here in the North, and we all benefit in the end. But if King’s Landing buys these materials, they leave forever—we in the North get no benefit other than the payment. And thus, the payment must be higher.”

Tyrion blinked. “That… is understandable, your grace. It truly is. I am just asking you to have compassion for those—”

 “King’s Landing is not my responsibility. It is my brother’s.”

“And mine,” Tyrion sighed. “As Hand of the King, I also have a duty to my people, to Westeros, to the realm of the six kingdoms, and to my king. Which is why I am here. You are correct that it is your land’s resources and your people’s work—you get to set the terms. We’re only asking for the terms to be… kinder, given our current situation.”

The Queen in the North sighed, shaking her head slightly. “You know as well as I do, my lord, that compassion and kindness without benefit does not a good deal make. Come up with how it benefits the North, and I will hear you. Otherwise, this negotiation is over.”

The Queen stood, the braided fabric swirling around her as she swept out of the room. Tyrion and the old man sat a moment longer in silence, the old man blinking as if he was unaware of the proper next step.

“Thank you,” Tyrion sarcastically snapped at the man. “You were ever so helpful.”

The old man just blinked at him silently and then slowly got up from the large oak table and walked out of the room. Tyrion just groaned and rubbed his forehead. He desperately needed a glass of wine.

* * *

There was no wine. How could there be no wine? The thought seemed absurd as he wandered from dining hall to kitchen to pantry. The kitchen staff offered him a thick and heavy ale, a maid offered him tea, and a soldier offered him something from a leather flask that looked suitably horrifying. Surely there was wine here _last_ time he was in Winterfell…

His frustration took him outside, where there was some noise and the sound of happy commotion as the sun was beginning to set. At the gate of Winterfell, where the wooden doors were swung wide open, families and soldiers, farmers and blacksmiths, artisans and children were all bustling around bags of goods, horses with sacks of grain, and tables of either artfully made items and local vegetables. It was—in Tyrion’s opinion— too disorganized to be a market. It seemed more like a shouting, laughing, jumbling swarm of trade and bartering.

In the heart of it all, a little girl with a cloth doll in her hand got pushed out of a jumbled mass of people by a boy that looked about twice her age. She went stumbling down, her knee skinning on the ground and her doll tumbling into the dirt. Tyrion instinctively began to move toward her, but there was no need. Instead, a braided goddess in black garb and wolves’ pelt stepped forward and offered a hand.

“There—no crying now,” Queen Sansa declared as she handed the girl her small doll and helped her to her feet. “Are you going to let them just push you around like that?” The girl stared up at her queen—wide eyed for just a moment—then shook her head. “Good.” She grinned, eyes shining with warmth, and then nodded conspiratorially over at the crowd the girl had been ejected from. “Now, you wanted some of those candied nuts, didn’t you? Go on, get back in there!” She smiled brightly as the girl nodded and rushed back into the crowd.

“There she is,” Tyrion declared, walking towards Sansa as she straightened and brushed some dirt from her embroidered skirts. “I’ve been looking for her since I arrived.”

Sansa sent a bewildered look Tyrion’s way. “Lord Tyrion, are you alright? We were just talking a few hours ago.”

“No,” Tyrion stated firmly as he walked forward, stopping just in front of Sansa, “I was just talking with the Queen of the North.” He took her hand gently and smiled. “What I just saw was Sansa.”

There was a small moment of stillness, and then Sansa yanked her hand out of Tyrion’s loose grip as abruptly as if she had touched a hot iron. “There’s no difference.”

“I disagree.”

They stood silently for a moment, eyes locked, a strange sense of impasse within the bustling crowd.  Then, a silversmith called out, “My queen!” and just like that the moment was ended. Queen Sansa turned and smiled a diplomatic smile at the man, who showed her his new silver hair-pin designs and reminded her that if she ever wanted anything that it was free of charge. She demurred, complimenting his skill, and new crowd of traders and borrowers began to form. The groups shaped and broke apart like schools of fish, until Sansa extricated herself again and again stepped toward Tyrion.

She sighed and sent him a relieved smile as they walked away from the bustling. “And what brings you out here to Winterfell’s new moon market, my lord? Are _you_ looking for a new hair-pin?”

Tyrion chuckled. “I’m not quite sure it would look very fetching on me. No, I was actually desperately searching for some wine. Your household seems to have everything but.”

Sansa hummed knowingly and nodded. “Wine grapes come from warmer climates, Lord Tyrion. You would have been better off in Dorne or back home in King’s Landing.”

“Well, yes, but last time I was in Winterfell—”

“Being independent does have its downsides,” Sansa explained flatly. “Fewer traders from the south come now that we’ve left the Kingdoms. That’s part of the reason we’ve started evenings like these—to remind people of the plenty that’s here, since not everything is easy to come by from other lands anymore.”

“Something that could be remedied with a trade agreement with King’s Landing,” Tyrion reminded.

Sansa sent him a half-reproachful glance. “As I said, we have plenty. And no one is rebelling because we don’t have southern wine. Most people drink the local ale and spirits here anyway—”

“So I’ve noticed,” Tyrion grumbled dejectedly.

Sansa chuckled, “—and those who prefer something lighter and sweeter have some options. Here—come with me!”

She took his hand and swept into a nearby crowd. For a moment, Tyrion was jostled against people’s hips, but—as the Northerners noticed it was their queen who was trying to move through the crowd—the bodies began to step aside, making room for them to pass as smoothly as a court dance. Soon the Queen and the King’s Hand stood in front of man with a pepper grey beard, who was sitting on a barrel and had dozens of bottles upright at his feet and a sign that read in roughly carved letters “WOODBERRY WINE.” Sansa gestured with a self-satisfied look on her face.

Tyrion sighed. Who knew what this was going to taste like, but his options were clearly limited, and it seemed impolite to reject the Queen’s solution—especially when she seemed so proud of these Northern wares. “Three bottles, please.” He glanced up at Sansa as he removed his coin purse. “They’re not going to charge me five times more, are they?”

“Not this time,” Sansa replied, clearly holding back a smug laugh.

Tyrion snorted. “Well, your grace, at least tell me that I won’t have to drink these alone.”  

Sansa raised an eyebrow as they walked away from the rustic woodberry wine maker and back toward the heart of Winterfell. “What exactly do you mean?”

Tyrion turned and tried to bow, clutching the three glass bottles to his chest awkwardly as he did so. “I mean that I would be honored if you joined me for a drink after supper.”

Sansa pursed her lips and looked appraisingly at Tyrion. “Don’t think you can plow me with woodberry wine and suddenly negotiate better trade terms.”

Tyrion made show of gasping in theatrical horror. “Negotiate without our essential historian and archivist? Perish the thought! I never would dream of it! How would we ever get anything done?”

Sansa stifled a laugh with her gloved hand, and for a moment she seemed to Tyrion to be that bashful girl he met in King’s Landing. Then she straightened again and composed herself. “One drink,” she agreed. “But just one.”

* * *

“No! He didn’t!” Sansa muffled a half-shriek behind her hand. “He asked him to help place a bet?!”

Tyrion nodded, in his laughter nearly choking on his woodberry wine. It had an unusual flavor—nearly cloyingly sweet on the front, followed by an earthy finish. It wasn’t a perfect substitute, but it would do for now and the Queen seemed to enjoy it. Her cheeks were flushed pink against her pale skin, and she had refilled her third glass despite her earlier protests. “He did! He tried to explain that it was a legitimate strategy for fundraising, since our king could see hints of the past and the future.”

“Oh dear… and what did my little brother say?”

Tyrion sat up perfectly straight, slightly unfocused his eyes, and spoke in as close to a flat monotone as he could: “ ‘Though I appreciate your creativity of thought, Master of Coin, I am afraid you will have to come up other strategies for raising the reserves.’ “

Sansa pursed her lips tightly. “That’s not funny.” Tyrion raised his eyebrow and waited for a moment before Sansa snorted again, bringing her hand up to her mouth to stifle further laughter. “Okay, it’s not _very_ funny. It is—” she choked on a laugh again, despite her attempts to swallow it, “—a very good impression though.” She shook her head, sighing. “This is awful. I shouldn’t have had this much woodberry wine. You’re a terrible influence.”

“I would like to note that I did not refill you glass once.”

“I know,” Sansa groaned. “I should have known better. I used to sneak glasses of my mother’s woodberry wine when I was young.” She shook her head, eyes distant with a mix of nostalgia and sorrow, her hand drifting slowly down to rest on the table. “I remember when I was ten, there was a shortage of woodberries. I never quite understood why. But my mother started keeping very close track of her wine bottles—every night, she was confused why there seemed to be a little bit less than how she left it. She only caught me once, when I accidentally dropped a whole bottle on the kitchen floor and it shattered—it went everywhere. You could smell it for weeks.” Her voice drifted off slightly, and for a moment they both sat in silence. Tyrion leaned over and carefully took Sansa’s hand in his. She smiled sadly and let him slowly run his thumb in comforting circles around her palm.

Then, as if some silent bell was rung in signal, Sansa stood, pulling her hand away.

“Thank you for the drink and the company, Lord Tyrion,” she said formally, slightly over-pronouncing her words and seemingly trying to stand preternaturally straight. The effect was only mildly impeded by the flush of her cheeks and the fact that her right braid was starting to become undone. “I will see you tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” Tyrion replied. He felt a strain to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Yes, I will see you tomorrow.”

Sansa nodded and swept softly out of the room, the door seeming to echo as it closed behind her. Tyrion sat quietly for a moment—his thumb felt slightly warm with the lingering memory of Sansa’s skin. But then…

“A woodberry shortage,” he murmured to himself. That… that was something. He hurried to the room’s small desk and began to address a note to be sent with a raven back to King’s Landing.


	2. Until Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than the last, but it definitely took me longer both in my frantic re-writing to get the voices right and in my breaks for research on the North, the Stark family line, the various spellings of poignards, and common breakfast foods in medieval England. **insert nerdiness here** More slow burn in this chapter, but the burn is flaming a bit hotter... and at least one character is aware of it now! Enjoy-

Tyrion woke the next morning with a slight headache and queasiness to his stomach—a belated confirmation that woodberry wine was probably higher in both alcohol and sugar content than the normal grape wine of King’s Landing. He groaned slightly, covering his head with a soft pillow and slightly cursing the light peaking through the window. It was soft light, this northern light, which always seemed to him to be missing the golden tones of the sun at King’s Landing. But even that soft light seemed like a mild assault on his senses.

 _I wonder if Sansa feels similarly this morning_ , he considered. The thought caused him pause, and he found himself sitting up in the guest bed and pushing back the grey furs, despite his body’s protest. He proceeded to get ready for the day as if in a slight daze—being sure to drink plenty of water and wash thoroughly, both which helped him feel a little more like himself—his mind slightly preoccupied with flashes of last night’s memories: Sansa’s laughter at his stories. The sadness in her eyes when she thought of her mother. The soft feel of her hand in his.

It was all very… distracting.

Tyrion cursed reproachfully at himself. This was not the first time his respect and awe for a queen had transformed into a rather boyish crush—throughout his life, he was consistently drawn to strong women, so the attraction itself was no surprise. But the last such crush ended with a city destroyed and himself nearly being burned alive by dragon’s fire. He still had nightmares about both Varys’s fate and the destruction of King’s Landing. Both should serve as enough of a cautionary tale, he thought.

But Sansa wasn’t Daenerys. Tyrion remembered how she had been in King’s Landing, her girlish youth and uncertainty. Even then, amongst the dangers of Joffrey, Cersei, and the King’s Landing court, she still had a hint of steel in her eyes—the promise of the queen she could become. Tyrion had admired that fierceness in the anxious Northern girl. But there was a kindness to that fierceness, something reminiscent of both her parents, the heritage of the Starks.

By the gods, she had been just a girl back then. A child forced into a loveless marriage with a dwarf she detested. _“You were the best of them,”_ Sansa had said during the Battle of the Dead. Tyrion still felt rather saddened by that assertion.

He sighed and finished dressing, the golden symbol of the Hand of the King pinned to his tunic. _Time to face the morning_ , he thought to himself.

The castle’s main dining hall was a bustle with soldiers, Northern lords, servants, and gentlewomen. Tyrion noted Ser Podrick and Ser Allins sitting with some Northern knights, Allins clearly in the middle of an animated story that caused the whole table to laugh uproariously.  The tables were filled with dark bread, sliced herring, cheese, and carafes of diluted beer. Queen Sansa sat at a head table, flanked by two juxtaposed groups. Her waiting gentlewomen and handmaids were to her left, giggling amongst themselves and dressed in soft, light fabric. To her right, there sat her dark cloaked and grandfatherly advisers, shuffling parchment and muttering quietly amongst themselves. Sansa sat perfectly straight, her eyes fixed on a forward point as she dipped a piece of bread in the watered-down beer. It was like she was of another realm, surrounded by bustles of humans on either side but not of them.

Tyrion took a slow breath and then walked forward. He bowed at the waist a few feet from the queen’s table. “Your grace,” he said firmly.

Sansa raised an eyebrow and sat quietly for a moment. It seemed she was unused to being addressed at breakfast. “Good morning, Lord Tyrion. Are we planning on more negotiations this morning?”

“No, your grace.” Tyrion couldn’t help a slight knowing smile to his lips as he straightened his back. “If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, I thought we would negotiate more in two days’ time.”

Sansa’s mouth mirrored his small, haughty smile. “And what will change in two days’ time, Lord Tyrion?”

“Very simple, your grace. I’ll have more information. You made it very clear in our first meeting that I was working from a false interpretation of your motivations and a false premise. I would like to rectify that and gain a deeper understanding of the Northern economy.” He gestured at the food on the table with open hands. “You challenged me to tell you how a trade agreement benefits the North. Well, I can’t do that yet. But I am certain, next time we negotiate, that I will.”

“In just two days?” Now the queen seemed thoroughly bemused, her eyes sparkling with a hint of challenge.

“In just two days,” Tyrion confirmed. “That is, if you would be so kind as to lend me an escort who would show me some of the local farms, mines, and resources.”

At this, Sansa seemed to hesitate thoughtfully. “Maester Hedwin,” she said, turning to the old man—who Tyrion recognized as the ancient archivist from the previous day—next to her, “as today has mostly been kept open for negotiations, I see no impediment to me enjoying some scenery today. Am I mistaken in that?”

The old man squinted for a moment, as if physically forcing his mind to connect information. “No, your grace. No impediment.”

“Wonderful.” Sansa rose from her chair, and the room seemed to rise with her as every Northman, soldier, handmaid, and servant stood in honor of their queen. “I’ll see you at the gate after you’ve had your breakfast, Lord Tyrion. Try not to keep me waiting.”

* * *

Sansa was as imposing a figure on a horse as on a throne, Tyrion realized. Her fur-trimmed dress was specifically made for her to ride forward astride her dark, black horse—a position of power compared to the more common side-saddle that courtly women in King’s Landing favored. Daenerys had ridden her horses and dragons in a similar way, but Tyrion had attributed that to both her history with the Dothraki and the message of power she wanted to send. Ser Brienne of Tarth similarly always rode astride on a horse… but, well, that choice was obvious. His sister, though, had always ridden side-saddle and he couldn’t image her steering and controlling her horse with such confidence. Actually, Cersei had hated horses. Unless it was a well-manicured garden, the less she had to be outdoors the better.

Sansa, though, looked like she was enjoying herself immensely as she breathed in the crisp, cool air and pointed out details of the skyline as they moved through the Northern countryside. She rode on her stallion as if it was as natural as walking, taking moments to pet the animal’s strong neck and give praise and encouragements as she did so. 

She also seemed to enjoy talking about the North—she was proud of every farmstead, every trade shop, and every mine. The locals would bow deeply as she passed, and she would immediately bid them rise and tell about their trade, interrupting them intermittently with commendation and acclaim. “Senen has the most flavorful beets you’ll ever try,” she insisted at one farm.  “Agatha makes the most delightful cheeses—so creamy and very traditional. They remind me of my girlhood,” she bustled at another. “You’ll never meet such hard-working lumbermen as these in the North,” she asserted at yet another stop.

Tyrion found himself grinning throughout the whole trip. He had never seen Sansa so fervent or passionate. The coldness and harshness from that first throne room meeting was as a distant memory, and there was a certain delight she expressed in each word and gesture as she shared her love of the North, its treasures, and its people.

“Thank you for this time today,” Tyrion said as the sun began to lower in the sky and they started back toward Winterfell, the accompanying guards and soldiers lingering slightly behind.

“Did you learn what you wanted?” Queen Sansa asked pointedly.

“That and more,” Tyrion smiled. “More than anything else, I think I learned how very much you love the North.”

Sansa’s expression faltered slightly. “I suppose I feel like I’m making up for lost time. When I was a girl, I wanted to be anywhere else—I thought I wanted to be a fine lady in King’s Landing and to never have to return to the North again.”

“And then you found out what a horrible existence that would have been.”

Sansa gave a sharp, short laugh. “Yes, I did.” The memories hung in the air between them for a moment, then she softly smiled down at Tyrion. “I met some interesting people along the way, though.”

Tyrion winced slightly. “Yes, I suppose ‘interesting’ is a word many would use for me. Better than some I’ve been called.”

Sansa frowned for a moment. “I’ve insulted you,” she said, her voice straining the sentence somewhere between a statement and a question. Tyrion shook his head.

“No, not insulted. Not at all.” But it was a reminder, he thought, of the limitations of the relationship they had. There was a tentative kind of friendship between them, but his reveries this morning of perhaps something more were merely boyish fantasies that needed to be set aside. Immediately. “Now, tell me more about the sheep farms around here. Who mainly uses the wool?”

Sansa frowned slightly, looking confused and perhaps even a bit concerned. Then she sighed and began to talk calmly about threads, blankets, and traditional Northern-style tapestries as they made their journey back to Winterfell.

* * *

“And then, he broke the post!” Ser Allins and Ser Podrick fell into a fit of laughter, splashing their beers slightly as they recounted over supper their time with the Northern guards. They seemed to be keeping themselves busy thus far, balancing knightly training and socializing with the Northern knights. There were also a few jokes about time spent ‘comparing swords,’ which Tyrion rather hoped was literal and not euphemistic.

“Very amusing,” Tyrion replied, only half paying attention. His focus kept being drawn back to the room’s head table—back to Sansa.

No longer in her furs and riding cloak, she was again in her dress of embroidered armor, the fabric in tight coils as if protecting her chest and small waist. Her long sleeves hung down elegantly as she took small sips of her cup and broke off tiny portions of bread and meat. She ate slowly, deliberately, back straight, eyes slightly unfocused but forward. Once again, just as at breakfast, the groups on each side of her conversed animatedly amongst themselves, but no one spoke to the queen, nor did she speak to anyone in return. She was very like a living porcelain statue, moving only slightly as she ate in silence.

It looked, Tyrion thought, incredibly lonely.

After dinner was over and the queen and her ladies exited with the same signs of respect as before, Tyrion went back to his room. He lit a small fire and sighed. There was no sign that a raven had come for him from King’s Landing—all there was to do was to write down some notes about his observations from the day. He sat down at the writing desk and smoothed out some parchment, beginning with some concise notes on livestock. He found himself pausing every few lines, though, his mind wandering. Finally, he sighed and set his quill down. Then he went to the corner of his room, picked up a bottle, and walked determinedly back into the cold halls of Winterfell.

The hall guards were leery of him at first, but—after a somewhat wordy speech reminding them both that he was in the North on a mission of diplomacy and that he and the queen were old friends— they finally let him through. One still stared reproachfully down the hallway at him though as Tyrion knocked firmly on the door to the queen’s chambers.

There was a moment of silence and a rustling of fabric, then a dark-haired handmaid opened the door with an accusingly furrowed brow. “Yes?”

Tyrion bowed. “Good evening, my lady. I am here to make an inquiry to—”

“Lord Tyrion?” Sansa swept elegantly over to the door, her dressing gown of dark cloth flowing around her loosely. Another gentlewoman stood by her, a silver hair brush in her hand. Tyrion had clearly interrupted the queen’s nighttime ritual of getting ready for bed. “What are you doing here?”

Tyrion bowed, hoping both the downward-turned face and the darkness of the hallway would obscure his slight flush. “Excuse my interruption and presumption, your grace. I was just wondering if… well…” He sighed and held up the bottle. “…if you would care to join me for a drink again tonight.”

For a moment, everything was still. Sansa stared at Tyrion curiously. “We spent all day together, Lord Tyrion,” she reminded him softly. “Are you not starting to grow tired of my company?”

“Not even a little,” Tyrion replied—perhaps a bit too emphatically. Sansa raised an eyebrow. Behind her, her handmaids and gentlewomen seemed rapt with interest. After another long moment, the Queen of the North stepped back into her rooms, leaving the doorway open. Tyrion hesitated, uncertain if the motion was a rejection or an invitation.

“If you wish to share that woodberry wine, you will have to come inside, Lord Tyrion,” Queen Sansa clarified. Tyrion let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and stepped inside the doorway of the queen’s chambers.  

* * *

As Tyrion finished his story about Ser Davos accidentally sitting in a fruit tart that Grand Maester Samwell had left on a meeting chair, some of the handmaidens tittered and giggled loudly, while the others looked like they were on the verge of falling asleep while sitting up. The queen had asked that a half a glass of woodberry wine was poured for all, but some of the young ladies looked like they couldn’t drink more than a thimble’s worth without it pushing them into the boundaries of sleep. “You all look exhausted. You may head to bed,” Sansa finally insisted. “You’re dismissed.”

One gentlewoman—the dark-haired one who had greeted Tyrion at the door—looked hesitant. “Are you sure, my queen?”

Tyrion was fairly sure his side glare at her was full of poignards, but Sansa just nodded firmly. “Yes. Goodnight, Gessy.”

The woman took one more cautious look at Tyrion, then curtsied and exited the chambers with the rest of the handmaids and gentlewomen. “She doesn’t seem to like me much,” Tyrion observed.

Sansa scoffed, eyes glittering with bemusement. “You’re the one who showed up at my rooms unannounced. Really, Lord Tyrion, what do you expect people to think about the whole thing?”

He chuckled, pouring himself another glass of woodberry wine, “Well, I could tell people that I am rattled in my old age and I accidentally forgot that we weren’t still married.”

Sansa snorted and reached to pour herself another glass as well. “That’s ridiculous for a number of reasons.”

“Such as?”

“For one, you’re not that old.”

Tyrion sighed heavily. “Really? I feel old. Ancient even. Do you know,” he sighed, gesturing with his cup toward the ceiling, “I have lived through six different rulers of the Seven Kingdoms? And now a seventh who is ruler of Six. That’s almost poetic—the rotation of the numbers, I mean. But all that change and chaos… it ages a person. I wouldn’t be surprised, actually, if my brain actually became that rattled.”

Sansa shook her head. “You’re one of the least rattled people I’ve ever known.”

“I could say the same of you,” Tyrion retorted. “You’ve survived more than me in so many ways—and here you are.” He raised his cup in the gesture of a toast. “The unrattled queen!”

Sansa snorted, nearly spitting out the sip of woodberry wine. “I’m not sure I want that as one of my titles.”

“No, perhaps not.” Tyrion looked at her appraisingly. “You do seem to be trying to earn the title of ‘the loneliest queen,’ however.”

Sansa wiped her lip and frowned at him questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, as I’ve observed, there aren’t many people who you seem intimate with.”

Sansa hesitated, her expression again becoming cool and distant. “Intimacy can be dangerous for a ruler.”

“And so can isolation,” Tyrion retorted. “You should at least have some friends or confidants.”

“I have advisers, and my handmaids and I are friendly.”

Tyrion shook his head skeptically. “Your advisers are old men, some who look just two steps away from death. And your handmaidens adore you—just like everyone I’ve seen in the North—but there’s a distance, as anyone can see. You don’t trust them.”

“I can keep my own counsel, Lord Tyrion.”

“But you shouldn’t _have_ to. A ruler needs support, not just for diversity of ideas but for the emotional burden that comes with being such a leader—with being so many things to so many people. You should have someone who—”

“You know of my aunt, Lynna Stark?” Sansa interrupted. Tyrion frowned at the seeming subject change but nodded carefully. “Do you know what’s remarkable about her, besides having a secret marriage to a Targaryen and apparently being the mother of Jon?” This seemed to be more of a musing than an actual question, so Tyrion waited expectantly. Sansa’s voice had a slight bitterness as she explained, “She’s the only woman who has been buried and honored in the family crypt.”

 Tyrion started slightly. “Really?”

Sansa nodded. “The only one. The crypt is full of warriors, scholars, heroes, and Kings of the North. All men—and then one lone woman who died in a pool of her own blood in childbirth.” Sansa took another slow sip of woodberry wine, but her expression was as if she had taken a sip of ash. “In eight thousand years of Northern history, there has never been a Queen of the North. Not once. If there wasn’t a male heir in the direct line, then they would adopt a cousin or a Snow. The chaos and change you spoke of, Lord Tyrion, is horrifying and painful—and it’s the only way the North is free and I am queen now. That’s what it took.” She turned to Tyrion, her eyes sharp with both grief and determination. “And so, I cannot accept weakness. If I titter and gossip with female friends, they’ll say I’m just a foolish girl and not fit to lead. If I have a man in my life with whom I am intimate, many will look to him for leadership and not to me. As the first Queen of the North, I will not accept that.”

Tyrion frowned. “So, you expect to have no husband. Not even a lover?”

Sansa waved the suggestion away as if it were a small insect. “Any woman becomes beholden to men in such situations. And will not be beholden to anyone. I cannot have the North think of the first queen merely as a stepping stone to her husband as the next King of the North. And so, I will have no man come over me. In any sense of the word.”

Tyrion set down his cup carefully. “I do believe that is the saddest thing I have ever heard.” Sansa gave a half-scoff in reply, but Tyrion shook his head. “No, I mean it. That is painfully tragic.” He scooted forward in his chair slightly and took Sansa’s hand once again in his. “You have known many terrible men. You’ve been forced to marry some of them—and nearly marry others. You’ve been treated cruelly and moved around like a pawn for other’s power. But you survived and grew into a magnificent woman. You deserve the kind of happiness other people take for granted. You deserve a man— _or_ a woman, if you prefer—who brings strength into your life, not weakness. Who adores you for the amazing queen and lady you are. Someone who you can trust. And someone, honestly, who gives you multiple orgasms a night.” Sansa laughed, eyes fixed down at the table. Tyrion smiled slightly. “Because truly, you do deserve it.”

“And where would I find such a person, Lord Tyrion?” Sansa countered. “Someone who would deserve me, adore me, love me, make me happy and—” she pursed her lips, “—all the rest? Who would do all that and still be fine always being second in import to the North? And who would do all that and not want the power that could come with it? I don’t think your perfect person exists.”

Tyrion sighed. “Someone who understands the challenges of rulership. Someone who has been close enough to know they don’t want it.”

“Not wanting it didn’t stop people calling for Jon to be King of the North, or Bran to be King of the Six Kingdoms.” She looked pointedly at Tyrion. He winced slightly.

“Perhaps. I just… you deserve so much more, sweet Sansa.”

She opened her mouth and for a moment Tyrion was sure she was going to chastise him and remind him that he should address her as “your grace.” But the chastisement never came. Instead she sighed and quietly let him hold her hand for a while longer. After a long, silent moment, she pulled her hand away and smiled a cool, soft smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion. I do think we should call it a night.”

“Of course.” He stood carefully, his head buzzing in a way that was not at all the woodberry wine. “Until tomorrow… your grace.”

As he shut the heavy wooden door to the queen’s chambers behind him, he hoped that the lingering sound of a choked, muffled sob was just his imagination.


	3. A Culmination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I am so sorry that this chapter took forever and a day to finish. This chapter kept getting longer and longer, and life kept getting in the way of me finishing it. But now that it is ready and posted, some good news and potentially some bad news:
> 
> Good news- THE SMUT IS HERE! IT HAS ARRIVED! Yes, after the slow burn kept every so slowly smoldering, by the end of this chapter there is finally a roaring fire. Please take the EXPLICIT rating seriously on this one.
> 
> Potentially bad news- Despite originally being sure that this story was only going to be three chapters, I felt like the chapter had to end at the point that it did, which means that there is a need still for a final wrap up. Therefore, I have updated the story to be four chapters and not three. The final chapter will be a bit shorter I think, more of a falling action/epilogue, but I just felt like I couldn't get it done here (especially given how exceptionally long this chapter already is). 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter for what it is: not a full ending of everything, but certainly a culmination.

Tyrion had expected a raven at arrive at his window that morning—he had not been expecting five.

He awoke with a start to the sound of a tap-tap-tapping of a beak against his room’s window, and abruptly sat up when he saw the unlikely—and frankly unnerving—black mass. Five black birds pressed onto one window sill looked remarkably eerie, and the raven in the center specifically had glazed, blueish eyes that looked downright unnatural.

Tyrion shuffled out of bed and opened the window carefully, allowing the birds to hop down on the desk, each one featuring a small, tightly wound scroll tied to its leg. The scrolls were a bit thicker than usual, and each one unfurled showed the familiar scrawl of Grand Maester Samwell Tarly, carefully answering Tyrion’s queries.

Well, all except the raven with the unearthly blue eyes. That raven stood preternaturally still as Tyrion undid the string and slipped the last paper from its leg. The handwriting on the unfurled parchment was distinct and sharp—all the familiar signs of the king. Tyrion frowned as he glanced over the small paper, then he looked up at the still and silent blue-eyed raven, which stood in sharp contrast to the other ravens that were hoping on his desk, grooming their feathers, and chittering and squawking slightly. The blue-eyed bird just stared at him, cool and calmly.

“Um, thank you,” Tyrion said, feeling a bit strange. He couldn’t rule out the possibility that the raven actually _was_ his king—which was, he admitted, one of the oddest thoughts he’d had in some time. The ongoing effects of having an essentially supernatural force as a king, he supposed. Tyrion hesitantly half-bowed at the waist. The raven gave a brief squawk in reply, seemingly pleased with the acknowledgement, then gave another cry as it turned back to the window. The other four ravens mirrored the action as they jumped back to the window frame, shook out their wings, and took flight in near unison back out into the grey sky.

Tyrion blinked at the window again, then rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes as he shut the window again, the glass frigid from Northern air. Well, that was… a surprising start to the day.

He carefully unrolled the five parchment strips and pursued the letters. Yes, Grand Maester Tarly had found exactly what Tyrion had assumed in the records. Three separate occasions spaced out over the past century. Perfect. The king’s note, he felt, was somewhat… less helpful on its merits. But if the king found it necessary to contribute to Tyrion’s query, then Tyrion decided he would find a way to include the information, odd as that information seemed.

As he dressed, he considered going down to breakfast before beginning work. But then… Queen Sansa may already be down at breakfast in the dining hall. He thought of the previous night. Of the sound of Sansa’s choked and muffled sob. Of the feeling of her hand slipping from his grip.

He shook his head. Better to focus on the information for the trade agreement. He could ask Ser Podrick to bring him some food later. He walked back over to the small desk, smoothed out a fresh piece of parchment, carefully dipped the desk’s quill in ink, and began to compose his argument—all the while very nearly convincing himself that he wasn’t avoiding anything. No, not anything at all.

 

* * *

Tyrion was nearly at the end of his parchment page and in the midst of a detailed analysis of Northern agriculture when Ser Podrick knocked on his door. Tyrion carefully and briskly explained how busy he was and that his plan for the day was to draft the proposal and agreement—no need for any meetings until he was done and no disruptions please.

Ser Allins arrived a bit later with some meat and bread, noting casually that Tyrion’s message had been passed on to the Queen of the North. Tyrion hummed in acknowledgement, but otherwise stayed intently focused on his work.

The sun was low in the sky as Tyrion finished his fifth parchment page. He had—if he took the time to acknowledge it—done an excellent job of not thinking about the previous evening. His mind was full of sheep and goat herds, wheat grains, and lumber. If his shoulders tensed and he paused a bit too long when he wrote the word “woodberry,” well… that was a small impediment. Nothing to examine too closely.

When he finally finished, his legs and hand were both cramping slightly—the former from underuse and the latter from overuse. He sighed as he blotted and then arranged the parchment pages, placing them in the correct order and then reordering them a few times distractedly. He supposed he should tell someone that he was done with his work so that a meeting could be arranged for tomorrow. He supposed he should leave this room and find some supper—the latter thought which was supported by an audible growl of his stomach. But instead he sat for a few more moments, his gaze wandering over to the window. The sky was painted in whirls of vivid oranges and pinks, the Northern countryside slowly becoming a dark shadow underneath. It was beautiful, Tyrion thought. Much more striking than sunsets in King’s Landing.

Well, the North had to have some benefits, he supposed. Its frigidness, harsh weather, and isolation all made it seem like a horrid place to live. But the people were proud and capable. The textiles and natural resources were impressive. They had beautiful sunsets, apparently. And of course, they had a remarkable queen…

And there it was. What he had been avoiding all day. Tyrion cursed to himself. It was just an infatuation, he reminded himself. And Sansa Stark was always a woman who could make decisions for herself. She didn’t need an old dwarf—one who had never been very good at being gallant—to try and rescue her from unhappiness. But still… his chest ached slightly as the memory of the previous night surfaced again.

His reverie was interrupted by a firm knock at the door. Likely Ser Allins or Ser Podrick to remind him that he should probably eat something. He mentally acquiesced, hoped down from the high-backed desk chair, opened the door—and froze in utter surprise.

“Lord Tyrion,” Queen Sansa declared regally, “you missed supper.”

Tyrion stood dumbstruck for a brief moment, then stood a little straighter as he replied, “Yes, apologies, your grace. I was finishing up work on my proposal for the trade agreement. I was actually about to send word that—per your convenience—it is ready to discuss tomorrow.”

Sansa quirked an eyebrow, tilting her head in such a way that her thin, silver crown reflected the lingering colors of the sunset. “Have you been in here all day?”

Tyrion winced. “I’m afraid I have, your gr—”

“Well, you deserve a break and,” she interrupted, gesturing to a waiting girl behind her who was carrying a platter of meats, cheese, bread, and root vegetables, “a bit of supper. And then we can talk meetings later.”

Tyrion half-bowed. “Thank you, your grace. That was very thoughtful.”

“You're welcome.” She waited a moment, expectantly. “Are you going to invite me in, Lord Tyrion? I know this is one of _my_ guest rooms, but as you are staying in it...” She trailed off, raising a thin eyebrow again.

Tyrion started slightly, his brain feeling slightly slower than the speed of the events around him. “Oh, yes, of course. Please, please come in!”

Sansa swept into the room, soft, deep grey plush fabric flowing behind her. The waiting girl nodded down at Tyrion and then placed the food down on the small table with his water jug. She bowed and then left as quickly and silently as she’d arrived, closing the door behind her as the Queen of the North sat regally down in the second high-backed chair near the table. “Do I remember correctly that you have one more bottle of woodberry wine?” She asked, her lips pursed in slight smile. “Should we open it, or do you plan on taking it back to King’s Landing with you?”

“I am happy to open it, your grace,” Tyrion replied, bowing slightly and then turning to collect the bottle by his desk.

“You can stop that,” Sansa sighed in response. Tyrion frowned, turning back to look at her in confusion. “I probably was too insistent about formality when you first arrived,” she clarified, a slightly apologetic look crossing her face. “You don’t have to call me ‘your grace’ in literally every sentence. Especially not in private.”

Tyrion nodded and finished retrieving the bottle, setting it near Sansa. “I understand. You’ve had to be very aware of how people in the North see your leadership. You explained that well. That said,” he smiled, pouring some of the berry-red liquid into both of their glasses, “I am glad that you still feel your leadership has room for at least a small amount of friendship.” Tyrion raised his glass in the gesture of a toast. Sansa looked at Tyrion appraisingly for a moment and then clinked her glass delicately against his.

They talked and drank while Tyrion ate, Sansa explaining some of the land disputes she had been mediating earlier in the afternoon and Tyrion comparing some of the Northern family quarrels to the recent scuffles for power around the Six Kingdoms. The conversation came and went like the breeze, sometimes a rush of words that would send them both into laughter and sometimes spots of silence, which felt to Tyrion oddly calm and not at all uncomfortable. He felt his chest tighten somewhat as he watched a smile bloom across Sansa’s face throughout their conversation. She looked much more relaxed—he wanted that for her always. Not just the coldness and the loneliness. She deserved to be happy, that much Tyrion knew.

“Can’t you find yourself an attractive, fairly unintelligent Northern laborer who doesn’t want the throne to fool around with?” Tyrion mused. Sansa stopped mid-sip, her brow furrowed at the change in conversation.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean our conversation last night. I understand your concerns with maintaining power in the North, but you really do deserve to have _someone_ in your life. It seems like there must be some sort of kind, young, strapping, and rather dumb man who is just happy to even be considered as consort to the queen.”

Sansa looked skeptical. “I thought I was supposed to have an intimate confidant. Seems to me someone who is ‘strapping and rather dumb’ would hardly suffice.”

Tyrion waved his hand dismissively. “Priorities. You deserve to be _happy_ —a person who is a respite and a good lay is more likely to achieve that than another policy advisor.”

Sansa choked on a laugh and shook her head somewhat reproachfully. “Why are you convinced that I need to have sex in order to be happy?”

Tyrion shook his head. “I think you need to have _good_ sex. There’s a difference.”

“Alright, Lord Tyrion. Then why are you convinced that I need ‘good sex’ then?”

Tyrion sighed, gripping the arm of his chair to avoid reaching to take Sansa’s hand again. “Because you haven’t had it, and that’s tragic. You’ve had a great deal of pain in your life—you deserve all the pleasure and happiness you can get from now on.”

Sansa frowned thoughtfully. “Why do you assume that? That I haven’t had any ‘good’ sex.”

“Would you like me to be honest?” Tyrion asked warily, slightly stalling by filling his glass with more woodberry wine.

“Yes, please. I’m curious.”

“Alright. Four reasons,” Tyrion held up four fingers in demonstration. “One, you were married to me as a virgin, by your own admittance, and we didn’t have any sex at all. Two, after me… well, I’m not going to inquire for specifics, but what little I have heard sounds horribly cruel.” Tyrion searched Sansa’s face for any uncomfortableness with the subject, but she appeared only cool and placid, her face a statuesque mask. He took a breath and continued hurriedly, “And three, while you are a very strong and confident lady, I don’t exactly see you taking cues from your sister and throwing yourself at dazed blacksmiths…” 

Sansa had just been taking a sip of woodberry wine when she suddenly clenched her hand to her mouth to avoid spitting the drink out in seeming shock. “Excuse me,” she said, wiping her mouth slightly, “but _what_ did you say?”

Tyrion paused. “Ah, the night before the Battle of the Dead, your sister apparently made some very assertive advances toward young Gendry Baratheon, now Lord of Storm's End. Apparently, she took quite the lead and left Gendry Baratheon stunned and quite smitten. He even proposed to her after the battle, but, well, it seems that she was about enthusiastic as you about that role for herself—a trend in this generation of Stark women, it seems. Lord Gendry confessed it all to Ser Davos the last time he traveled to Storm’s End.” And Davos had immediately told Tyrion over drinks when he returned to King’s Landing. For a former pirate and smuggler, Ser Davos was, Tyrion noted for future reference, a terrible secret keeper, especially after a few pints. “He’s ostensibly still quite put down about the whole ordeal.”

Sansa sat, mouth agape, for a quiet moment. “She never told me,” she admitted, her voice a mix of surprise and mournfulness. “I suppose I don’t know how it would have come up, but still… I think I would have liked to have known. Right now, I don’t even know if my sister is alive or not.”

Tyrion hesitated slightly. “I don’t know if it will bring you much comfort, but King Bran says that she is.” Sansa raised an eyebrow in response. Tyrion shrugged, only half-understanding the king’s power and sight himself. “Ser Brienne asked after her one day. The king said that he checks in occasionally and is keeping an eye on her. He did not say where she was, just that she is ‘quite capable’ and well.”

Sansa gave a slight sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear. Though the fact that my little brother can ‘keep an eye’ on us all is a little troubling. I suppose he knows where Jon went to as well?”

Tyrion shook his head. “If he does, he has not said. And you,” he gestured to Sansa with his cup, “are getting me off track.”

“My apologies,” Sansa smirked. “What was your final reason?”

“My final reason,” Tyrion declared smugly, “is that if you had _truly_ had good sex—the kind of ecstatic, mind-meltingly enjoyable sex that someone like you _should_ have—then you would not be so willing to go without.”

Sansa chuckled. “There really are greater priorities, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion made an exaggerated sweeping gesture with his hand. “There you go. That comment only proves my point.”

She shook her head half-incredulously. “Your plan—delightful though it is—is flawed. It doesn’t matter if this hypothetical strapping, dumb working man _wants_ the power or not. Jon, as far as any knew, was a Snow with no formal right to any throne. He didn’t want it, but you saw how the North rallied around him.”

Tyrion sighed, “I see your point. There’s a certain romanticizing that can happen in my scenario: the farm boy who fell in love with a queen and became king. No, that won’t do.” He leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes for a moment. “It would have to be someone that no Northerner would choose over you then. Someone automatically disqualifying.”

“Well, that sounds appealing,” the queen responded wryly.

Tyrion opened his eyes and snapped his fingers. “A southerner then. No one in the North would accept a king who hailed from south of Riverrun.”

Sansa made an amused humming sound. “And how do you expect to find me this kind, strapping, dumb, southern working man who is also incredible in bed, Lord Tyrion? Are you going to put up notices in King’s Landing? Should we include that in the trade agreement?”

Tyrion laughed. He admitted the folly to his musings. It was just— “I just want to see you happy, Sansa. That is all.”

The Queen in the North sighed. “I am content, Lord Tyrion. That is enough.”

“Again, I think that it _shouldn’t_ be enough,” he replied. “Not for you. You deserve more than that.”

Sansa gave him another one of her unreadable, curious looks. Then she leaned forward and planted a brief kiss on his cheek, her lips like flower petals, delicate and soft against his stubble. “You’re a very kind and good man,” she said. “You deserve happiness too. I hope you know that.”

“I’m not quite sure about that,” Tyrion replied hurriedly. His chest felt tight and the lingering feel of the kiss felt almost like burning. “But I appreciate the sentiment.” He looked over to the small window, the night spread out like black ink across the sky. “I… it is late, your grace. We should probably… Well, we will meet tomorrow about the trade agreement.”

It was silent in the small room for a moment, then Queen Sansa stood, and the sound of the soft plush of her dress rustling felt near-thunderous to Tyrion. “Good night then, Lord Tyrion.” Her voice was cool and abrupt, the tone suddenly changed compared to just moments ago. “I appreciate your time and look forward to tomorrow’s negotiations.”

Tyrion tried to respond but felt the words dry up in his throat as the queen exited the room, leaving him alone and uncertain in the night’s growing darkness.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Sansa wasn’t at breakfast, but Tyrion was given a message to meet at his earliest convenience with the queen and her archivist in the same room in which negotiations had started. He conscripted Podrick to carry his rolls of parchment and asked him to stay then for the meeting as well—another body at the table seemed wise, a balance of seats on each side of the negotiation.

When the knight and the King’s Hand entered the room, the queen and the old archivist were already seated. Sansa was wearing a rich, deep green dress today, swirls of silver embroidery on her skirts and sleeves to match her crown. Tyrion bowed slightly and then took his seat across from Queen Sansa. Poderick hesitated for a moment, considering how to bow without crumpling Tyrion’s parchment sheets, then made his own half-bow and sat down across from the ancient archivist, who already looked like he was falling asleep.

Tyrion waited for a moment then took a deep breath. “I’d like to begin with a tale about woodberries,” he said, his voice light and intentionally conversational. Sansa raised an eyebrow. “When the queen was just a little girl of ten, there was a woodberry shortage. The reason for this shortage was a mold that had infected the roots of the berries. It’s a rare mold, one that horticulture scholars say occurs when the season is warmer and wetter than usual. The mold is of a variety that can spread to other plants, but it didn’t that year because the farmers destroyed a great deal of the woodberry crop to prevent dispersion.”

“That is true,” the archivist croaked out, his eyes still seemingly partially closed. Tyrion looked for a moment at the old man in startlement, then continued.

 “Um, yes, and they knew destroying much of the woodberry crop was important because,” he spread one of the parchment sheets out on the table, on which he had meticulously copied the information sent to him by Samwell Tarly, “about sixty years before, this mold had surfaced and spread through most of the wheat and barley of the North. There were food shortages, and thus undernourishment and a high child mortality rate for years to come.”

“This is also true,” the archivist sleepily affirmed.

Tyrion nodded. “This was something the elders at that time were used to because,” he moved his finger along the parchment, “thirty years before that, there was an influx of rye beetles that infested most of the grain throughout the North. This affected not just bread production, but also livestock feed. The infestation had an impact on the whole Northern economy, which is intensely agriculturally interconnected. The Northern farmers did an excellent job of irradiating the pests through controlled burnings, but they couldn’t salvage the grain. It would have been far more devastating for the North than the wheat and barley mold sixty years later, but it wasn’t. There were no major food shortages, and very little death. Do you know why that is, your grace?” He looked at Sansa intently. She nodded, seeing where this was going.

“Because of trade and support from other kingdoms.”

Tyrion nodded. “Precisely. The lords of the North funded a massive purchase of southern grain and flour to aid their community through the difficult times. If the southern kingdoms had raised their prices beyond the normal cost, however, it would have been devastating and the North likely could not have supported its people through this devastation of their crops without severe loss of life.”

Tyrion turned the parchment page and pointed to the final. “One of the earliest examples of the importance of such trade agreements comes from around four hundred years ago, after…” Tyrion hesitated briefly but ultimately decided to use the exact language the king had sent him, “…after four of the old gods became angry and cursed the weather across the land. According to, um, reports, one area of Westeros saw intense rain that flooded their crops and fields, while other areas saw severe droughts. All the kingdoms were affected by the severe weather that year, and trading amongst the kingdoms was important both for health and survival.”

The archivist opened his eyes and looked puzzled. “I… have no way to verify this last example, my queen. I do not have records that go that far back.”

“I will admit,” Tyrion sheepishly half-chuckled, “that this final example was sent not by the Grand Maester, but by my king. After this tale, he wrote, ‘One never knows that the gods will bring in response to humanity’s carelessness. It is better to be prepared.’” Tyrion looked at Sansa, who sat back in her chair and sighed deeply.

“No,” she murmured, “I suppose one never does know.” She looked at Tyrion pointedly. “You make a fair point about the need to support one another, Lord Tyrion, but you still have not wholly changed my mind that an agreement that sets the price as the same for a Northern worker and a merchant from King’s Landing is ridiculous and harms my people in the short term—even if it would be helpful in a rare catastrophe.”

Tyrion nodded. “It doesn’t have to be the same—it should just be _fairer_. You’re not taking pity on King’s Landing by making the price more affordable; you’re _investing_ in the idea that, with a clear agreement in place, the southern kingdoms of Westeros must abide by the same fair and affordable rate if the North ever needs resources and aid for its people.”

Tyrion wanted to add, _And your no less strong for it. You’re thinking of your kingdom and your people_. _It’s what any good ruler would do_.

He didn’t say that thought aloud though—it seemed crude and fairly manipulative to Sansa’s emotions. Instead, he just waited, hoping that she’d come to the realization herself.

She stared at the parchment in front of her for a long moment and then, with the smallest nod of her head, stated clearly, “I think we can come to an agreement, Lord Tyrion. What do you, as representative of King’s Landing and the Six Kingdoms, think is fair?”

Tyrion sighed in relief.  “About five percent increase in the normal price seems fair for leaving the region.”

Sansa tilted her head. “I was thinking closer to twenty.”

Tyrion smiled in relief. Anything negotiated from here was still a better agreement and scenario than before his journey. He pulled out his notes and began explaining his reasoning, the interconnected nature of so many industries, and Sansa responded with her intimate knowledge of the Northerners’ concerns and needs. Podrick and the archivist just sat quietly, their gazes moving back and forth between the queen and the King’s Hand like watching a Dornish tennis match.

“Ten percent then,” Sansa stated firmly.

“Ten percent,” Tyrion agreed. “That will be a help to King’s Landing, in our current rebuilding from last year’s disaster, and it will be a fair price if the North is ever in need after any unexpected crisis. Plus,” Tyrion couldn’t help smirk as he rearranged the parchment on the table, “it should be easier for Northern lords and ladies to import goods, such as southern wine, if they so choose.”

Sansa chuckled, “I suppose that is true. If this agreement goes through quickly, I may even be able to have some present here at Winterfell next time you visit, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion hesitated slightly, his breath tight in his chest. “I… don’t know the next time I’ll have a reason to be in the North, your grace, but if business does bring me here again, an occasional glass of woodberry wine—especially with good company—would be just fine.”

Sansa sat quietly for a moment, her face morphing from her warmer smile to an expression that was cooler and more placid. “Happy to hear it. And will you be venturing back to King’s Landing tomorrow?”

Tyrion nodded. “If your archivist and I can copy down the language of the agreement by the day’s end, it would be prudent for Ser Allins, Ser Podrick, and I to set forth in the morning. It’ll be important to have the agreement made official by the king and the information disseminated to our kingdoms.”

Sansa nodded. “I’ll make sure a proclamation is spread throughout the North. Please send a raven as soon as King Bran signs the agreement.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“And tonight, after the agreement is copied, we’ll have a celebratory supper,” the queen nodded at both Ser Podrick and Tyrion, “in honor of your hard work and your time spent here.”

“Well, thank you, your grace, that’s very kind,” Podrick chipped in before Tyrion could speak. “Always appreciate your hospitality here at Winterfell. You have some fine knights too. Allins and I agree, it’s been really nice being here. Really nice. Even with the weather.”

Tyrion felt the desire to crawl under the table in embarrassment at Podrick’s eagerness, but Sansa just smiled. “Glad to hear it. Well,” she stood, and Tyrion and Podrick stood immediately as well—the archivist attempted, but seemed to have difficulty moving, “I look forward to seeing the final language of the agreement.” She nodded at Tyrion, holding his gaze for a moment, then at Podrick and the archivist. After she left, Tyrion’s eyes lingered on the door a moment until Ser Podrick called his attention back to the table and back to work.

 

* * *

 

The agreement hadn’t taken long to draft—despite his sluggish movements at the meetings, the old archivist was incredibly fast at scribing—and Queen Sansa had plenty of time to read over and approve the agreement before the evening. Therefore, the supper really did become a celebration of all their hard work. The queen began the dinner with a toast to a new era in the North’s relationship with the rest of Westeros, one of independence yet mutual support and diplomacy. The toast seemed to receive a warm reception in the room, and Tyrion was sure that such language would be used to communicate the reason for the agreement to the Northern lords. It was a good strategy, Tyrion thought, and one that held just the right balance in tone between practicality and idealism.

Supper was a lavish affair—nearly a feast with a variety of fresh and dried fruits, roasted venison and lamb, winter greens, and rich, dark beer. The tone in the hall was jovial, and Tyrion could even see Sansa smiling during his many glances over to her table. Podrick and Allins, who were sitting across from him, kept regaling Tyrion with the differences between the Northern and Southern terms for weapons training, as well as how they had picked up some new songs and stories for the journey back.

“Ey, Pod!” Allins half-whispered, or at least whispered as much as he could in the raucous dining hall. “The queen keeps looking over here.”

“Of course she is,” Podrick replied matter-of-factly. “We’re her guests. She’s checking in on us.”

“I don’t know. I think I know that look.” Allins grinned. “Maybe she heard about your night with the scullery maid last time you were in Winterfell!”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow as he took another piece of venison, trying desperately not to look over at Sansa. “What happened with the scullery maid?”

Podrick blushed. “Nothing! I mean, sure, _things_. Things happened. And she was lovely. But then she tried to steal my horse to get me to stay in Winterfell! I was actually worried about this trip—thankfully I haven’t seen her, but… she was very upset when I left. While we’re here I’ve been tying three knots when I’ve been racking-up my horse—just in case.” Allins clearly had heard this story before but was still choking on his beer while laughing hysterically.

“You and your seemingly magic cock never cease to amaze me,” Tyrion admitted, shaking his head. Then Tyrion’s breath caught in his throat.

 _Podrick_. Was Ser Allins right? Was Sansa sending meaningful glances over to their table after hearing about Ser Podrick’s exploits? Tyrion himself had suggested a kind, strapping, dumb, southern man. Podrick wasn’t dumb, per se, but he was fairly innocent and genuine, which felt similar. He was a knight, someone who would respect both the power of the crown and Sansa’s commitment to her people. He was strapping enough, Tyrion supposed, and had grown more so in his training as a King’s Guard. He was certainly kind, and someone who Tyrion owed his life to. And—if reports were to be believed—he would certainly make even the most jaded women happy in bed. If Tyrion really considered all the qualifiers, there was almost no one else alive who might fit as well for Sansa as Ser Podrick. It could, in fact, be a very good match.

And yet… Tyrion felt his chest and throat tighten and his eyes sting ever so slightly. He didn’t want it to be Podrick, he admitted bitterly to himself. It felt too close to home. Constructing the “perfect” partner for Sansa, someone to make her happy, had been fine as an intellectual exercise, hypothetical and distant. But if she were to pick the flesh and blood man sitting across from him—well, that, Tyrion realized, would feel quite painful indeed.

He chanced a glace over at Sansa’s table, where the queen was—as Allins had said—at least partially looking their way, as well as lightly gesturing toward them as she whispered something to one of her gentlewomen. Tyrion wasn’t quite as convinced as Allins that the queen’s expression was one of interest, but the gentlewoman’s face had a slight blush and whatever the queen was saying to her caused her to raise her hand to her mouth, an expression of amusement and scandal blooming on her face like a winter rose.

Tyrion cursed silently to himself. Even though he detested most ale, he brusquely picked up Podrick’s mug of dark beer and took several large gulps. When he put the mug down, Podrick was staring at him questioningly. Tyrion just shook his head. “Thank you for your company, but I think I’ll retire for the night. I’ll see you tomorrow morning in preparation for our journey home.”

He didn’t wait fully for Allins and Podrick’s response as he pushed himself away from the table and began to exit the dining hall. He had just entered the hallway outside when he heard a high pitched, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Lord Tyrion?” Tyrion paused and turned. He immediately recognized the gentlewoman who had been sitting next to the queen at her dining table. She hurriedly walked up to him, curtsying slightly before saying, “My queen said that there is another matter that she’d like to discuss with you. She requests that you return to her chambers in about an hour, if it suits you.”

Tyrion hesitated a moment in surprise before replying, “If that is what the Queen of the North wishes, you may tell her that I’ll be there.”

The gentlewomen curtsied again in response and then rushed back into the dining hall. Tyrion sighed and rubbed his forehead. He hoped beyond hope that, whatever the matter was, it was _not_ about Ser Podrick.

 

* * *

 

It was like a mirror image of two nights before as Tyrion walked down the stone hallway to the queen’s chambers. This time, the guards did not stop him or even give him so much as a second glace. As he once again strode down the hall and knocked on the door to the queen’s chambers, he did so less assuredly than he did before. After the knock, there was the same moment of silence and rustling of fabric, this time punctuated with one feminine giggle that sounded like the gentlewoman from dinner. The door was then opened by the same dark-haired maid from before, but, instead of looking at him with suspicion, she gestured courteously for him to enter.

“Thank you, ladies,” Sansa said from her dressing table. “Have a good night.”

The ladies curtsied and filed out of the room, the one from dinner giving Tyrion a conspiratorial smile that confounded him. Then the door shut, and they were alone.

Tyrion looked over at Sansa. Her hair was down and clearly recently brushed, and she was dressed in the same thin, black dressing gown that Tyrion had seen both two nights prior and on the first night outside of the crypt entrance. For some reason, the intimacy of it all felt more dangerous—or at least more painful—than the previous instances. Tyrion cleared his throat, trying to push away the boyish nervousness he felt. As he half-bowed, he said, “I’m afraid I had no woodberry wine to bring tonight, your grace. My apologies.”

Sansa smiled slightly. “No need to apologize, Lord Tyrion. I had actually considered having one brought up from the store room, but…” she paused for a moment, considering her words, “…I felt this conversation required a certain level of sobriety.”

Tyrion felt his shoulders tense, his natural response to a ruler of any realm indicating that they needed to have a serious conversation. Those moments had—in his view—rarely gone well for him. “What conversation is that, your grace?” he replied cautiously.

“No need to be so formal,” she reminded him calmly. “And it’s what I hope seems a natural progression of our earlier conversations.” She pursed her lips in a slight smile. “The ones where you so meticulously analyzed the kind of person I supposedly need in my bed.”

Tyrion sighed. Damn it all, this _was_ going to be about Podrick. It certainly wasn’t the worst outcome he’d experienced in a conversation with royalty, he admitted tor himself, but it still stung. “And what is this ‘natural progression,’ your gr… my lady?”

She tilted her head slightly, her red hair spilling down her shoulders like a summer waterfall. “I liked it better when you just called me ‘Sansa.’” The comment cut like a dagger. It all felt too intimate, too friendly. This infatuation, Tyrion chided himself, had gotten out of hand. Such a comment shouldn’t sting so much. Sansa had the right to seek anyone’s company that she wished—Tyrion shouldn’t hold himself the gate keeper just because of some childish day dreaming.

He took a deep breath, “Of course. Sansa. What is it you wanted to discuss further?”

Sansa gave him one of her curious looks and then sighed, “You really are not going to make this easy for me, are you?” Tyrion frowned, unsure of what she meant, but she waved her hand as if dismissing the comment from the room and continued. “I’ve been thinking a great deal about your analysis of what I need. I think you started with a strong premise and then took that premise in an incorrect direction.”

Tyrion furrowed his brow in confusion. “How so?”

Sansa pursed her lips in a slight smile, her blue eyes shining brightly in the reflection of nearby candlelight. “You began with the idea that I deserved someone who would give me both support and good counsel, who would adore me, at least in part, for my strength. Someone who would never try and tear me down, but instead act as caring support. Someone I could trust.” Sansa made an open gesture with her hand, as if inviting feedback. “That is where this conversation began, correct?”

Tyrion hesitated. “I do believe, even in the first conversation, that I did also mention—”

“Yes,” Sansa interrupted with a thin smile of amusement, “multiple orgasms a night. I remember. But that is rather where _you_ fixated. You then proceeded to assume that the only thing I actually needed was some attractive tradesman that I could use for his body as long as he didn’t want to become and couldn’t become King of the North.” Sansa’s expression turned serious. “I wouldn’t, Lord Tyrion. I have seen how people can be used—treated like tools, animals, or objects. I wouldn’t do that or want that. If I am to let someone into my bed, it’s because they’re someone who I genuinely respect for all that they are. It’s not going to be some sword smith from King’s Landing with whom I have no care and no history.”

Tyrion winced and bowed. “Of course. I am sorry to have insulted you.”

Sansa started, “What? No, that’s not—by the gods, you are incredibly frustrating.” She rubbed the side of her head, as if the response from Tyrion had instantly given her a sharp headache. “What I’m trying to say is that you were correct the first time. Perhaps I did need to be reminded that there are people I can trust, who have shown that they care for me, who do give me strength, and one of them,” she mused, “even had quite the reputation for being skilled in the bedroom. At least if the Northern whorehouse rumors are to be believed.”

Tyrion opened and closed his mouth a few times, then finally surrendered himself to befuddlement. “I’m sorry, my—I mean, Sansa, but _who_ exactly are you referring to?”

Sansa shook her head, her expression one of complete amazement. “You are so clever. How can you also be so incredibly daft?” She sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take a cue from my little sister after all.” She rose from her dressing table in a rush of soft fabric and pulled her hair to one side. “Follow me please, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion frowned as he followed Sansa to the doors separating her dressing area from her bedroom chambers. A fire burned in the fireplace, giving the room a vigorous orange glow, and grey furs were draped over the bed. As she walked into the room, Sansa began untying her dark, robe-like gown, and then she sat regally on the bed, the black fabric now draping open and exposing a soft curve of one breast, her smooth stomach and thigh.

“Is this direct enough?” she mused.

Tyrion felt all words and breath catch in his throat, and his eyes seemed glued to Sansa—her pale skin, her softness, her enquiring face. He forced himself to shut his eyes. “My lady, ah, Sansa, I…” he swallowed heavily. “You… you don’t want me. There are hundreds of more fitting people in Westeros, thousands even. Even in this very castle, Ser Podrick—”

“Lord Tyrion, if you don’t want to be with me, you can just _say_ so,” she interrupted judiciously.

Tyrion opened his eyes, and his vision was immediately seared with the image of Sansa, her lips slightly open, her hair spilled across her shoulders, the light of the fire dancing across her smooth skin. Tyrion nearly groaned. “I _cannot_ say so, my lady. Because it wouldn’t be true,” he confessed. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“Tyrion,” Sansa said flatly. The simple sound of his name, no honorific before it, ran through his blood like fire. Just like that, he knew he was hers. “I am a queen, and I say you’re worthy to be in my bed.” She smiled lightheartedly, “Does my assessment suddenly count for nothing?”

Tyrion laughed softly. “It’s just… I don’t understand why.”

Sansa sighed and shook her head. “Because I _know_ you, and you know me. Because you’ve always treated me with respect, whether I was a virginal girl forced into a political marriage, or Lady of Winterfell trying to protect my house, or Queen of the North trying to make the best decisions for my kingdom. You never saw me as anything else but _me_. Because you’re kind, genuine, and thoughtful. And,” she smiled affably, “because you feel you have to ask that question.” She paused meaningfully and leaned back on the bed’s soft furs. “Now, you should either walk out that door and leave me to wallow in embarrassment,” she declared, “or you should come over here and make love to me.”

Tyrion’s whole body strained to move forward, to pull Sansa to him and embrace her whole-heartedly, but his feet felt glued to the floor. “I… I should warn you,” Tyrion blushingly admitted, “that it’s been awhile. For me. Since I have… done anything like this.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow and wore her face in a friendly, challenging expression. “Have you forgotten how?”

Tyrion laughed instantly. “No, nothing like that.”

“Good,” she replied, a teasing smile playing across her soft lips, “because I believe I was assured ‘multiple orgasms’ in one night. I’d hate for that to have been an empty promise.”

She held out her hand, an open invitation for Tyrion to come forward. This time, his feet moved without the need for prompting. When he reached her, he held out his hand to delicately brush her cheek, as if she were perhaps a figment of his imagination that would disappear upon contact. Instead, his hand met skin—smooth and soft like silk. He then moved his hand into her streams of hair, carefully guiding her head forward.

The first kiss was tentative, testing, like the rain sliding across a spring leaf. Then something felt like it broke, a damn taking on too much water, and Tyrion pulled the queen into a deeper kiss, breathed her into him as she eagerly kissed back. She felt her hand brush his stubble as she reached forward and then tangled her fingers in his hair as well, grasping his curls and pulling him in closer, pressing their mouths to and into each other. It was electric, more dizzying and potent than anything that Tyrion could have dreamed. He brushed his hand down the side of her face, down her throat, hesitating slightly at the bend of her shoulder before dipping down to slide his hand around the curve of her breast and down further to settle on the side of her waist. Her breath caught ever so slightly, and Tyrion felt like he could melt into that feeling as she pushed her skin into his touch.

For a self-conscious moment, Tyrion cursed his size. He would have liked to have thrown himself on top of Sansa, to pull her to him confidently. Instead, he had to pull away from her for a moment to awkwardly push himself onto the bed. Thankfully, there was no judgement or hint of bemusement in Sansa’s eyes as she shifted to make room for his smaller body, and nothing but eagerness as he began to kiss her again. He ran his thumb against her cheek and tried to communicate even a fraction of his want as he recaptured her mouth with his. He then shifted and began to kiss down her throat, his left hand sliding to her left breast. Her breathing was heavy as he moved his mouth lower to her collar bone and began to tease her nipple between his thumb and index finger. This tore a rough moan from her as his mouth dipped lower, now taking her right nipple into his mouth and lightly sucking, grazing the tip with the edge of his teeth. Then he moved his mouth to the left breast, repeating the motion as he rolled her right nipple between his fingers. In response, Sansa’s breath quickened and her whole body began to squirm and twist. Briefly, Tyrion wondered if anyone had ever done anything like this for her before—if she’d ever even explored and enjoyed her own body.

He repeated his machinations on each breast until Sansa’s breathing was rapid and rough, soft cries sporadically escaping from her lips, then he dipped his head lower, mouthing his way down her stomach and caressing her sides. His hand dipped to the red curls between her legs, and he was pleased to find warm dampness there.

He looked up at Sansa’s face a moment, and the view of Sansa that greeted him—her cheeks flushed a bright pink, her eyes glazed and wanting, her freshly kissed lips parted as she gasped for breath—was stunning, and Tyrion had no doubt it would be seared into his memory until the day he died. After silently reminding himself to breathe, Tyrion paused here, his fingers positioned lightly on her sex, looking to Sansa for a signal of permission to continue before he crossed this threshold. After a moment of quiet patience, Sansa seemed to realize that Tyrion was waiting for her affirmation, and she softly nodded at him, her red hair rippling across the bedding.

Tyrion hadn’t realized he had been tensing his body, but he felt himself relax at Sansa’s nod. With a renewed assurance, he pressed a finger into her as he rolled his thumb against the top of her opening, feeling the soft bead of nerves hidden there. Sansa immediately gasped, her hips jolting slightly off the bed, her legs near spasming. She looked down at him in shock as Tyrion smiled slightly and rolled his fingers again, pressing harder against the small bead and crooking his finger inside her. As she squirmed and gasped, he dipped his head and mouthed her opening, moving his tongue against her folds and the spot that he had been pressing. Sansa barely muffled a scream with her hand, and Tyrion found her sex pressing harder against his mouth as her hips bucked. Encouraged, he slipped another finger inside her as he continued to lick, moving his mouth and hand movements in sync with her moans and shouts. Her breath was coming faster now, and her cries were increasing in pitch, so he crooked his fingers upward and together they massaged the soft skin inside her as he licked and sucked at the top of her sex. It was this that pushed her over the edge as Sansa screamed, and Tyrion felt the area around his mouth increase in dampness and heat as Sansa’s body tensed and convulsed like a strike of lightning ran through her veins. Her legs clasped tightly around him, and she pressed her heels against his back so firmly that it was almost painful. Then she collapsed, near-boneless against pillows and bedding, her breath loud and heavy in the quiet bedchamber.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Tyrion said hoarsely, smiling softly as he wiped the dampness from beneath his mouth, “that was the first orgasm of the night.”

 “I—oh my—I… nggg!” Sansa half-laughed through her panting as she attempted to catch her breath. “Oh my goodness, I—I think I see what people get all worked up over now.” She waved her hand in front of her face like a fan and then patted her palm against her chest a few times as if to restart her own heart. She looked down at Tyrion—her face flushed and smiling—but then frowned. Her voice was almost petulant as she said, “You still have all your clothes on. That is far too many clothes.”

Tyrion shrugged slightly. “This night isn’t about me. I don’t need—”

“ _Tyrion_.” Sansa’s voice was still queenly and commanding, even post-orgasmic and slightly out of breath. “Clothes. Off. Now.”

Tyrion opened his mouth as if to protest, but Sansa’s determined look stopped him. He sighed, unhooking the buttons of his woven vest. “I’m afraid you would be much more impressed with the body of that hypothetical swordsmith we discussed.”

Sansa smiled slightly but didn’t respond, instead reaching to help him shrug out of his undershirt. After toeing off his boots, his hands fumbled slightly while unlacing his pants, but he finally took a deep breath and pushed them down, kicking them off onto the floor as he turned back toward Sansa.

She was looking at him, and Tyrion was surprised to find that her gaze was seemingly without judgement. Over his adult life, he had seen many women’s expressions upon first seeing him naked—some were expressions of barely disguised revulsion, some were amusement, and some were clear relief that his genitals were not as small as his overall frame might suggest.  But they all had been judgments in one way or another. But Sansa was just looking at him the way she had looked at him many times before—with curiosity, with openness, and with warmth. He felt his chest tighten, and he moved to her again, grasping her face in his hands as he kissed her with as much passion as he could, letting her taste the memory of herself on his lips. 

She was still tender with her first orgasm when he entered her, and—though he was slow and careful—she still gasped against him. It didn’t seem like a gasp of pain though as she clutched his shoulders and pressed forward with her hips, pulling him deeper into her. He groaned—it had been so long since he had last been with a woman, and he wasn’t sure how long he would last with Sansa’s breath in his ear and her heat around him. He began to move, and with each thrust Sansa rose her hips to greet his until they were both in a harmonious yet frantic rhythm. His right hand against her neck and her fingers again in his hair, they gasped and moaned into each other’s mouths. As the pace quickened further, Tyrion felt Sansa tense once again, her moans becoming high pitched cries, until one of Sansa’s cries formed into a single word: “ _Tyrion_!”

The sound of his own name pitched from Sansa’s lips in such a frenzied and ecstatic cry shot again like fire through Tyrion’s blood. It was too much. He quickly ripped himself from Sansa’s heat, his hand grasping himself as he came in thick spurts on the paleness of her stomach. The red-haired queen looked down questioningly, eyes slightly unfocused as she stared at the slick mess in dazed confusion. Tyrion cleared his throat slightly, “Pardon, but I did assume that the last thing you need in your life is the bastard son of an imp to worry about.”

Sansa was silent a moment, and then a sharp bubble of laughter burst from her lips. “That is both very considerate _and_ rather disgusting feeling,” she declared. She continued to giggle, her face still glowing and flushed. Tyrion couldn’t help but just stare at her for a moment, committing each smile, each tone of her laughter, each sparkle in her eyes to memory. As he dampened a cloth at her washing table and carefully wiped them both down, he did the same for each memory of the candlelight reflecting off her hair, of the feel of each her soft curves, of the warmth and smell of her skin.

As he set the cloth aside, Sansa immediately pulled him to her, pressing her face against his neck and wrapping her arms around him. Her breasts pressed against his back, and he could feel every breath as he pressed back against her.

“You can stay here for the night,” she said, breaking the silence and answering the unspoken question hovering in the air, “then return to your room in the morning. I know you must gather your things for the journey home.”

 _For the journey home_. The words were so simple and yet filled with such finality.

Tyrion grasped Sansa’s hand and held it tightly against his chest. “Never have I wanted the ability to cleave myself in two until now,” he confessed. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you here. Alone.”

Sansa sighed against him, pressing her body closer. “It’s how it has to be. We’re in a better place than we once were—this is the only time in our lives when this could have happened, I think. But we’re not entirely free from responsibility. You’re the Hand of the King, and I’m Queen of the North. You have more important responsibilities than saving me from my loneliness, Tyrion. Besides, I’m… I’m used to being alone.” She pressed a kiss against the curls of his hair. “And I’ll have the memory of this night, at least, to carry with me.”

Tyrion felt helpless tears sting his eyes, but he pushed them away and pressed a kiss to Sansa’s hand. It wasn’t enough, he knew. It wouldn’t be enough.

But it was all they had.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the ages delay on this epilogue, folks! As some of you may have seen in the comments for Chapter 3, I was nearly finished (or at least just a few pages away) when I got a wrist injury that made it very difficult to type. After a couple months, some doctor visits, and lots of wrist strengthening exercises, I was finally able to sit down and finish the story without wrist pain! Hope it feels worth the wait and that you enjoy the end of the story!

“They want a hell of a lot more support than the fuck all we gave them last time, that’s for sure,” Bronn scoffed, leaning back in his chair precariously. “That’s what this wining and dining is all about. The little baby Martell prince thinks that he can distract us with pretty girls and shiny goblets.”

“From what I saw in your behavior last night,” Ser Davos replied flatly, “he’s right.”

“Hey, I don’t look a gift whore in the mouth. Well, not much. Depends if she’s a biter.” Bronn chuckled at his own cleverness and looked hopefully toward the Hand of the King for support. Instead, Tyrion was silent and staring slightly unfocusedly at the Dornish seascape. Bronn frowned. “Hey!”

Tyrion blinked and looked over at Bronn. “I beg your pardon?”

“You were being all distracted. Again. And I was being clever.”

“That’s debatable,” Ser Davos interjected.

Tyrion’s face flushed slightly, and he straightened in his chair. “My apologies. Where were we?”

Davos shook his head. “Finished for now. Ultimately, it’s the king’s decision if we intervene in the port dispute between Dorne and the Stormlands. He has the letter from Lord Swann and the appeal and hospitality of Prince Martell—our assessment of the local whoring,” he paused and gave Bronn a sharp look, “will be hardly much help.” Ser Davos nodded at Tyrion as he gathered and carefully stacked the papers in front of him. “May I walk with you to give these to the king?”

“Y-yes,” Tyrion half-stuttered, shaking his head as if to dismiss a wayward dream. “Of course.”

The halls of the Dornish palace were arched and open, the sound of the water garden in the courtyard below flowing up through the balconies.  “I’ll be bloody happy when we’re headed home,” Davos grumbled, squinting to keep the sun out of his eyes. “Even in winter, it’s too bloody hot down here.”

“Yes,” Tyrion concurred. After a pause, he added, “Excellent wine, through.”

“Sure,” Davos agreed cooley, “and the Master of Coin seems pretty happy with the lack of clothes that the women wear around here.” Tyrion chuckled softly in reply, and they walked for another moment, listening to the cries of Dornish birds and quietly running water. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been… unfocused lately.”

Tyrion winced. “I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

Davos nodded. “Bronn also noticed that you’ve not really appreciating the _views_ around here as much as he has.”

Tyrion snorted. “We’ve had far more important priorities these days than attractive women.”

“Not really,” Davos retorted swiftly. “While I might not like Ser Bronn’s blatant salivating, we really don’t have much to do as advisors on this trip. There’s time for some relaxation and appreciation.” They walked for a moment longer before Davos half-smirked and said conversationally, “There’ve been some rumors around King’s Landing that you might have lost your bits back when you were the Hand of the Dragon Queen.”

Tyrion stopped in his track and stared at Ser Davos incredulously. “My _bits_?”

Davos just shrugged. “Just letting you know what’s been said. Some people are just trying to make sense of how the most infamously lascivious imp is seemingly living as chaste as a high priest.”

Tyrion scowled and shook his head. “First of all, I’ve seen high priests in many a whorehouse. They’re _not_ that chaste. And secondly, I haven’t—I mean—there’s a time—and I—”

“Now,” Ser Davos interrupted as smoothly as if Tyrion hadn’t been stumbling through a garbled attempt at an answer, “personally, I don’t think it’s anything like a physical mutilation. I think the most common explanation for a change in a man is a change in his heart. And if I were a betting man…”

“Which I know you are.  You remember that I’ve seen you play cards with Brienne.” Tyrion replied flatly, the hint of annoyance at the chosen topic clear in his voice.

“…yes, in the _hypothetical_ situation where I were a betting man, I would say that this change of heart isn’t just grief and pain. We’ve all experienced those in the last few years, sure. But those wouldn’t cause you to look into your wine glass as if you’d discovered a bug every time someone sent a dancing girl over toward you last night.”

“Bronn was just trying to be funny. It wasn’t—”

“Nor would those keep you distracted in meetings.”

“As I said, I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Nor would those cause you to awkwardly pet Lady Yara’s cloak last month.”

“I didn’t—” Tyrion stopped in his tracks and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I didn’t _pet_ her cloak. I just brushed up against it. And I just found it… an unusual cloak for the ruler of the Iron Islands.”

Davos smirked. “Because it was trimmed in wolf’s fur." 

“Yes, exactly. It was intriguing that the trade agreement with the North was having such a quick effect, even on a ruler’s fashion. I wanted to ask her about it.”

“Which is why you stood by the cloak rack in silence for five minutes. _Petting_ the cloak.”

“I wasn’t—”

 “And thus, if I were a betting man, I would say that this change of heart means—”

“ _Really_ Ser Davos—” Tyrion tried interrupting. 

“—that you’re in love,” Davos concluded flatly.

They stood in silence again, interrupted only to some extent by the sounds of the courtyard. Then, as if someone had suddenly cut a puppet’s strings, Tyrion’s shoulders sagged, and he half-collapsed against the elaborately carved wall of the Dornish hallway.

“You’re often smarter than I am,” Tyrion murmured as if towards his feet. “You know that, don’t you?”

Ser Davos shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t make a claim of any specific level of intelligence. But I know a man tortured by emotions when I see one. And I’ve been around the world enough to know what love and longing look like. Does she know how you feel?”

Tyrion sighed. “Something approximating.”

Davos nodded, considering. “And yet most of the ravens to the North from King’s Landing have been from the Master of Coin. If I was yearning for a woman, I certainly wouldn’t let Bronn be the one writing to her more than me.”

Tyrion choked out a chuckle and shook his head. “It’s not—it’s not simple. She’s not only the king’s sister and the ruler of a kingdom: she’s the queen of a kingdom that seceded from my king’s rulership. The king whom I serve—for whom I am his Hand. I’ve toed the edge of treason enough in my life to be wary of coming close to it now.”

Davos gave a short snort. “You really think the king would view you as a traitor for falling for his sister?”

“He’d have every right to do so,” Tyrion countered. “I was sent to argue on our kingdom’s behalf and was compromised in the process. My feelings could be viewed as an insult to the king’s lineage and royal status. And, since my journey to the North, I’ve been torn and distracted. I dare say I’m not doing a very good job as Hand of the King.” Tyrion looked at Davos pointedly. “Rulers have fired and even executed people in my position for less.”

Ser Davos shook his head and waved his hand glibly. “Some rulers, sure. But this is King Bran we’re talking about.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Ser Davos, we’re two of the smartest men in the king’s employ, and we converse with him more than almost anyone else in the kingdom. For a second, have you ever felt like you’ve truly understood our king’s nature and intent?”

Davos shrugged. “If you’re talking about all the spooky mysticalness, of course not. But I know he’s a good man. And so do you—you were the one who chose him. You should trust him—and trust your own instincts.”

Tyrion let out a deep sigh that seemed to shake his entire being. “I feel ripped in two. I’m not sure I know how to trust my own instincts anymore.”

The older man frowned and then leaned forward to clap a reassuring hand on Tyrion’s shoulder. “That’s a big enough problem that you should talk to the king then. If you feel like you’re not being a good advisor, then you should trust him enough to tell him that.”

Tyrion winced, but slowly nodded his head in agreement. As they continued through the Dornish halls, the warm-weather birds chirped melodically, their songs interrupted only briefly by the squawk of a strange, solitary raven.   
  


* * *

  
As Tyrion walked into the meeting room where his king and the Dornish prince were sitting, he couldn’t help but contrast it with the North. While the North was all darkness, cool greys and stone, Dorne was golden sun and rich, light woods. Tyrion near had to shield his eyes as he walked towards the Dornish prince and the King of the Six Realms, both sitting with the sun backlighting them on a shaded balcony. Next to them was a cluttered table covered in maps and a variety of blue, fruit-filled bowls. The prince was nodding at whatever King Bran had just been saying, his expression eager and earnest.

“I thank you for your assistance and your good council,” the prince was saying, youth and guilelessness shining in his eyes. Tyrion did not have high hopes for this regional leader keeping control of his kingdom long if he was going to be so earnest and trusting—but then, Tyrion had been wrong before.

Bran nodded slowly, his expression enigmatic. “I trust you and the Stormland lords to deal with each other fairly. Now,” the king’s somewhat distant gaze drifted over to Tyrion, “I do need a moment to talk with my hand. If you would excuse me.” King Bran gestured slightly at his legs and chair, indicating to the prince that—despite the phrasing—he would have to be the one to leave the room. The Dornish prince just smiled and nodded, murmuring his thanks profusely and half bowing as he exited the room. Tyrion scoffed slightly after the prince’s exit.

“I suppose you didn’t need the careful deliberation of your advisors after all,” he commented dryly, gesturing with the ream of paper in his hand.

King Bran pursed his lips in that ever-mysterious way he often did. “I know your counsel was sound. You just took your time bringing it to me. It seemed better to act sooner, so we could speak.” The king tilted his head, his eyes refocusing slightly as his gaze fell more directly on Tyrion. “And we do need to speak, don’t we?”

“How did…?” Tyrion shook his head. “Never mind. I, er, yes, your grace, I—” Tyrion shuffled the papers in his hand, then set them down on the nearby side table. Then picked them up again. Then sat them down again. He then took a deep breath to steady himself and then began to declare, “Your grace, when you first chose me to be your hand, I did not want it. I did not think I was up to the task. But you assured me that it was my duty to help put the kingdom back together. For a long while, I believe I have done my best. I have given you the fairest counsel and advice I have been able to and—”

“I do so like this tapestry,” King Bran interrupted. “Have you looked at it?”

Tyrion froze, confused. He followed Bran’s gaze to an intricate tapestry on the wall. In the tapestry, the hands of the Seven gods were weaving together strands of string in many different colors, making up a new image of a tapestry of Westeros within the larger tapestry. It was a beautiful piece, and Tyrion said so. King Bran nodded.

“It has some inaccuracies, of course. The Seven is a single deity with seven aspects, each representing a different area of life. But most people refer to the Seven as separate, and that is how It is depicted in most art. There’s also the matter of the string, which is meant to represent human lives.” Bran sighed in a labored way that sounded somewhat wearied, as if he was a teacher looking at the attempts of a small child to draw an object and now had to point out the inaccuracies in the elementary attempt. “This picture makes it seem that human lives are easily moldable, that they’ll just fit into place, moved like inanimate strands of cloth. In reality, it’s so much more complicated. People change, and move, and resist, and fight, and sometimes lives get tangled and caught, making them unable to move where they are meant to go. So the Seven doesn’t just place a life where it needs to be—it would be better to say that people’s lives are nudged, swung toward their proper place. Sometimes one’s life falls where it needs to, and sometimes it doesn’t. And so the swing happens again. And so there’s another nudge.” The king smiled a soft, sentimental smile. “And sometimes people indeed end up where they’re supposed to be—sometimes just through the mundane and sometimes through the most unlikeliness of circumstance.”

“But how do we know?” Tyrion felt his voice falter and catch in his throat as he spoke. “How do we know where we’re supposed to be?”

Bran sighed and shook his head. “That is always the question, is it not? How does humanity understand the will of their gods—either the old or the new? I see glimpses of their wills, though even I am not always certain. But to me, I have found that there is a feeling. Even when there is pain and difficulty. A feeling of being _home_.” Bran looked pointedly at Tyrion. “Did you have something you wished to talk to me about, my lord Hand?”

Tyrion was quiet a moment and then nodded his head slowly. “You know, I’ve known many so-called homes in my life. Casterly Rock, King’s Landing—I’ve wandered Pentos and Meereen. I’ve enjoyed different aspects of each of those places. The history, the wine, the climate, the women. But none have made me feel like I was truly home. I was always an outsider, at war with myself and my surroundings in some way.” Tyrion shook his head ruefully for a moment. “And… my King, do you know what I do _not_ like very much? The snow. I truly detest feeling cold. The times I’ve visited the North, I’ve hardly wanted to leave the glow of the fire. Also, the fact that wine doesn’t grow in the climate is a horrific strike against it. And the history and the culture there is honestly antithetical to what I was taught to value and respect growing up as a Lannister. Seemingly nothing about the North fits for me. And yet…” Tyrion felt like his heart was lodged for a moment in his throat, choking him. He let out a broken, strained breath and continued, “And yet, when you mentioned the feeling of being home, I thought of the North instantly.” He turned and looked directly into the King’s gaze. “Because that is where your sister is.”

King Bran stared silently at Tyrion for a few tortured moments. Then he nodded ever so slightly. “Your paths have been swung together quite a few times.”

That mere, slight acknowledgement was enough to lessen the vice in Tyrion’s chest. “Yes,” he sighed, “and—well, it was always a terrible time. Nothing was ever right. And it’s still not—or at least I’m not sure it is. But it’s a better time, a better place than it’s ever been before. It feels so possible, and yet…” Tyrion placed his hand to his chest and felt the symbol of the Hand of the King there in cool, sharp metal. “I am sorry, my liege. I’m failing to live up to your task for me. You told me I had a responsibility to help mend the kingdom that I helped break and—”

“What makes you think you haven’t? Or that it’s not what you’re still doing?” The king’s mouth was curved into a soft, bemused smile. “Were you not the one who first showed a broken young boy who would be king that he had the power to sit up straight and ride forward? Were you not the one, time and time again, placed at those places and moments that most needed your wisdom? Did you not help piece back together what was broken in our kingdom? You have played a role, Lord Tyrion—the question is, where are you needed _now_? Where do you fit in our current puzzle?” King Bran tilted his head. “For instance, if you left King’s Landing for a time, do you expect the peace and balance we’ve worked to put in place would crumble?”

Tyrion opened his mouth, hesitated, then spoke with honesty. “No, your grace. Ser Davos gives excellent counsel, as does Brienne of the King’s Guard. And Ser Bronne, selfish and ruthlessly practical as he may be, is a necessary foil to their idealism. And Grand Maester Tarly doesn’t just know our history, but knows how to apply it, to give context and balance to disagreements. If you needed any counsel, all the pieces are there… except perhaps a careful mediator to keep them from killing each other.”

An amused smile bloomed on the king’s face. “I expect they can manage. Which means it’s time that your place is elsewhere, Lord Tyrion.” The king held out his hand, palm open and waiting.

Tyrion swallowed apprehensively and unhooked the metal pin from his chest. He placed the pin carefully and deliberately in King Bran’s outstretched hand. Suddenly, the hand closed, grasping his own firmly, almost painfully tight.

“You have done your job well,” King Bran insisted, his voice somehow both soft and severe at once. “And you should embrace your next role as fervently as you have this one. It is no less important.”

“I…” Tyrion frowned. “I am still not sure what that role is, your grace.”

As if in response, the king just smiled one of his inscrutable and knowing smiles.  


* * *  


She woke up with the memory of fingers still hot on her skin and the ghost of a kiss on her lips. This was the fifth such dream in so many weeks, she noted, and it was more than a little frustrating. Sansa groaned against her pillow, pressing her hips slightly against the bed beneath her, hoping for some relief.

This was torture. Pure and simple. Perhaps it would have been better not to know what a good sexual experience felt like, to stay in a state of ignorant disinterest. But now she did know, and the memories had been haunting her—sporadically but vividly—in her dreams.

But it wasn’t just the sex, she admitted to herself as she slipped out of bed and into her soft, black robe. It was the feeling of a soft kiss on her shoulder as she was drifting off to sleep and the warm feeling of waking up next to someone softly holding her hand. It was the look Tyrion had given her as he brushed back a stray strand of her hair. It was just having someone to talk to who she trusted and who saw more to her than the Queen of the North.

It was wonderful having that for a short while—and so much more painful now that it was gone.

Sansa sighed and determinedly shook her head to clear away the traitorous thoughts. She allowed herself only a small amount of self-pity, and it was time to move on with her day.

She washed quickly and brushed her hair with a determined and focused care. After her maids and gentlewomen then arrived and helped dress her, she felt the mask and manacle of a queen become more solid with each hook of the day’s corset and drape of velvet of her dark, embellished dress.  

She was fully returned to her stoic and regal self, focused on the tasks at hand and not her own longing, when she met with her advisors and maesters at breakfast. “Have we heard the status of the ambassador?” she asked briskly as a plate of bread and cheese was set before her.

Maester Hedwin wiped some crumbs from his mouth before responding, “Yes, your grace. He arrived at Barrowtown yesterday and should be at Winterfell before sun-down.”

“Any new apprises on how long he’ll be staying?”

“No, my queen. The note from King’s Landing and the one from Barrowtown only confirmed that the ambassador is meant to aid in communications between the kingdoms and would therefore need a place to stay ‘for a time.’”

Sansa huffed slightly, tearing her piece of bread a bit more forcefully than she needed to. It was very presumptuous of her brother to send an ambassador to stay ‘for a time’ without consulting her beforehand. The suddenness of the raven letter and the speed in which this ambassador had then been dispatched was both exasperating and strange.

She asked a few more questions about the ambassador’s arrangements, then moved on to questions about the proposed mill that was being planned at Dreadfort. There was enough business to keep her distracted today, and she embraced her tasks with the earnestness of a woman doing her best to disregard any feelings of lonesomeness.

It was nearly six hours later when Sansa received word that the ambassador from the Six Kingdoms and King’s Landing had arrived. Adjusting her crown in a hall mirror, Sansa briefly wondered again what kind of person her brother would send as a liaison—hopefully this wasn’t a task given to a courtly bore whom the kingdom wanted to be rid of ‘for a time.’ Surely her brother wouldn’t be quite so self-interested and selfish as that.

She took a deep breath to center herself, then smoothed out her skirts and tilted up her chin as she entered the Great Hall. Every figure in the hall stood up dutifully as she walked slowly to her chair. Because of all the standing men, most of whom were rather tall, she didn’t get a glimpse of the new ambassador until she was nearly at her seat. When he was finally in view, she felt her breath catch and her feet freeze in place. “Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion Lannister was already deep in a respectful bow, but as he straightened himself, she saw his eyes glimmer with all the warmth and caring that she’d been seeing in her dreams for weeks. The sight of it was like sun beams on a winter day—surprising but deeply welcome and rejuvenating.

“Queen Sansa,” Tyrion greeted, his voice soft and deep, “thank you for welcoming me back to Winterfell. I look forward to doing my duty to continue to grow the relationship between the kingdoms by acting as a diplomatic bridge and—”

“I don’t see how,” Sansa interrupted. The whole room froze, and she realized her voice had been much sharper and more incredulous than she had intended. She sighed, looking intently at Tyrion. “My lord, I have… appreciated our interactions and acknowledge your history of diplomacy, but even you cannot be an effective and objective ambassador while also being Hand of the King for the leader of the Six Realms. There is a fairly significant conflict of interest.”

Tyrion smiled one of his sad and careful smiles, the kind Sansa could remember from their brief marriage at King’s Landing. “That would be true, your grace,” Tyrion admitted, “which is why Ser Davos has taken over the role of Hand of the King for your brother.” As if to emphasize, Tyrion placed his hand to his chest, where indeed there was no sign of the signature metal pin. “I am here now to fulfill a new role if…” Tyrion took a deep breath as if to steady himself, “…well, if you’ll have me. Your grace.”

 Sansa swallowed and let out a breath that hoped didn’t sound as shaky to others as it did to her own ears. Then she continued her path to her carved, wooden throne and sat down—slowly, carefully, and ceremoniously. The room was quiet as she did so except for the soft crackling of the fire. In the quiet, Tyrion’s eyes never once left her face. “Of course, Lord Tyrion. You’re always welcome at Winterfell, and if there’s no conflict with your roles,” she paused and tried not to smile too openly, her lips pressed firmly into a careful line, “then I look forward to our continued diplomacy.”  


* * *  


It was different this time—there was a new energy to it. If the first time Tyrion’s kisses were all reverence and tempered passion, this time neither of them could be described as restrained. They were both like figures long lost in a desert who had now found an oasis from which to drink. The moment dinner had ended and Sansa’s handmaiden’s dismissed, they fell into each other voraciously in the darkness of the queen’s chambers—Sansa gasping into Tyrion’s mouth as his slight, calloused hands slipped under her robe and tangled in her hair. She drew him closer to her, pulling his shirt—the one now free of that heavy burden of the metal broach—open and off his shoulders. The soft touches from her dream were firmer now, less cautious, and the eagerness of Tyrion’s mouth first on her own, then on her breasts, and then against her sex were like a cleansing fire, soon causing her to clamp her own hand against her mouth to muffle the delighted shrieks that kept trying to erupt from her throat.

Their gazes locked together as he entered her, and Sansa felt as if a rope had been tied from the very center of her being to Tyrion’s as they pressed against each other, moving in tandem and breathing into each other’s gasps. That rope stayed tethered as he pulled away from her to finish, and Sansa pulled him up to meet her, locking their mouths together and muffling his cry with her kiss as the heat of Tyrion’s climax spattered across her chest. They stayed like that for several moments, their foreheads pressed together and the soft cadence of panting filling the dark room.

Tyrion, naturally, was the first to speak. “I missed you,” he whispered hoarsely. The quiet admittance shattered the frantic energy of the moment before, and Sansa couldn’t help but let a couple of relieved and breathy laughs burst from her mouth as Tyrion pulled away to retrieve the nearby cleaning cloth and basin.

 “I think I missed you too,” she admitted, her lips quirking into a wry smile. “You know, Winterfell was far too quiet without your storytelling and fanciful theorizing.”

 “Was it?” Tyrion chuckled, carefully wiping the washing cloth against her breasts. “I’ll have to make up for lost time, then.” What followed was a series of amusing stories about the recent trip to Dorne, Bronn’s inability to bow correctly, and Ser Davos’ continued embarrassment over losing at card games to Brienne of Tarth. Between each amusingly told tale, Tyrion drew lazy circles on Sansa’s palm with his thumb and occasionally paused his stories to capture her mouth with his once again.

 After another story finished, Sansa pointedly asked, “Did you give up being the Hand of the King to be with me?”

 Tyrion half-winced and half-smiled. “I wish I could say I was so noble. It’s more accurate to say that it was a… mutual decision after a confusing conversation I had with the king your brother about deities and destiny and string.” Tyrion reached forward and brushed a few red hair strands from Sansa’s face, her dream scene made real once more. “It made me realize that, as much as one can know such things, this is where I am meant to be. Here with you.”

  Sansa smiled and felt her heart—usually so tight and closed—like a blooming winter rose, opening slowly toward the sunlight warmth of hope. It was a strange feeling after all of these years. “Well, good,” she affirmed, pulling him to her once again. They settled against each other, warm under the bed’s furs as their arms linked, Sansa’s breasts pressed to Tyrion’s skin as he buried his face against her neck and in her hair. “I can think of no better place for you to be.”


End file.
